


Heaven's Gate

by cosmicpoet



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Abuse, Anarchy, Character Study, Drugs, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Homelessness, Homicidal Thoughts, Homophobia, M/M, Mental Illness, Protests, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, applications, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-07 16:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 51,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13438602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: Tsumugi surveys the room, taking in the applicants for the next series of Danganronpa. They all have their own stories, their own motivations; and she wonders how Team Danganronpa will change them to create the best cast ever.Shehasto create the best cast ever.[One chapter per character; pre-game personalities]





	1. Tsumugi Shirogane

Tsumugi grips her clipboard in an almost-fist, her knuckles white, teetering on the edge of pain as the metal clip pushes against her fingers. The ticking of her watch reverberates in her ears; she’s silent, alone, her heart beating against her chest.

“Shirogane,” a voice from the adjacent room calls her, “get in here.”

“Yes, sir,” she puts her bravest voice on, and walks through the door, imagining that her plain pumps are stilettos, that her musky pink lips are coloured sharp red – in her mind, she is a worthy mastermind. _She will be better than Junko. She has to be._

“Put these on,” a man in a lab coat hands her a short, black wig, and some contact lenses.

“Why?”

“Jesus…last series’ mastermind wasn’t this dumb,” he says, and Tsumugi shudders, steeling herself and calming her nerves, “so that the chosen applicants won’t recognise you in the game.”

“But sir, the memory replacement – sorry, the flashback lights – should get rid of their recollection of the application process. They won’t remember anything, let alone me.”

“Shirogane,” he sighs, “you need to get accustomed to using terms like _‘flashback light’_ and _‘Ultimates’_ instead of talking about memory replacement and applicants. Don’t make me regret making you the mastermind; one fuck up once you’re in there and the whole season goes to shit.”

“R-Right, yes, I understand, but my question –”

“Fuck, you’re impatient. As I was saying, the flashback lights aren’t exactly fool proof – they haven’t failed us yet, but we don’t want to take chances. That’s why you can’t be part of the interview process. You’re going to be walking round in disguise, pretending you’re an applicant like the rest of them. Get to know them, talk to them, act like you’re some starry-eyed Danganronpa fangirl – that shouldn’t be hard for _someone like you –_ and then report back to me at the end of the day with your input.”

“Yes, of course,” she says.

“There should be a change of clothes through there,” the man gestures to another room, branching off from this one, “I want you ready and out here in five minutes.

“Yes, sir.”

Once she’s alone again, Tsumugi feels like she’s going to be sick. Everything in the past year has led to this moment, and she doesn’t know how to deal with it; she always imagined that she could channel Junko from the moment she walked through the Team Danganronpa office doors, that she’d be irresistible, people would gravitate towards her. She’d even dyed her hair blue to give her an extra _edge._ But it had been a year of getting coffees and brainstorming ultimate talents and going home at the end of every day to watch old reruns of the trials that made her fall in love with Danganronpa.

And now, finally, it had culminated in this. She couldn’t fuck it up. She was going to be the best damn mastermind that Team Danganronpa had ever seen.

For the first time in her life, she would be worth something.

She stares at her reflection in the small mirror; even with the wig, and without her glasses, she looks remarkably ordinary. Wondering if she even needs to change her appearance – someone so forgettable would naturally leave the minds of these future-Ultimates even before the flashback lights inevitably warp their memories – she sighs at her image.

Escorted by her boss, she exits the offices through the back entrance of the building and loops round the street, walking to join the queue of applicants shivering in the cold. Pulling at the ends of her wig, she stays silent and surveys the people around her as they all walk inside the building. It’s not hard to pretend that she doesn’t recognise the laminated floors and high windows; she’s only ever been an unimportant temp, and now she’s seeing things through the eyes of someone who matters.

In the past, she’d thought that she was nothing like the people who applied for Danganronpa. These people signed up to die, knowing that they could very well be killed off first; they could be forgotten, just another unremarkable wannabe-Ultimate in another unremarkable murder mystery marketed to an audience who need to see blood to feel something. Tsumugi has always wanted to be more than that – and she’s intelligent, she knows that the mastermind gets the glory; life or death be damned, she will be _remembered._ This is exactly why she’s worked her way up the ranks; she started as a temp, filing papers and doing admin work for the people who truly mattered, and then she proved herself time and time again until the position she craved was offered to her – mastermind of Danganronpa 53.

But, looking around her, she sees the same bright-eyed, terrifying motivation in the faces of everyone; she recognises this as the same expression she gives herself in the mirror each night as she practices her lines in the dead, black, darkness. They can sugar-coat it however they want, but they’re all here because they’re not exactly stable; death doesn’t seem terrible to anyone in this room.

* * *

 

The nervous face that she puts on comes naturally to her as she approaches a blonde-haired girl, standing on her own; her arms are crossed, her hair styled into a spike – Tsumugi suspects that she’s done this intentionally, to make herself look like a Danganronpa protagonist – and she’s frowning.

“H-Hey,” she says to the girl, “are you…here to apply?”

“Why else would I be here?”

“T-That’s true,” she says, realising how unnatural her stutter seems; she makes a mental note to tone it down in future conversations with applicants, “me too.”

“Cool. I’m Kaede Akamatsu.”

“Oh,” Tsumugi panics, she hasn’t thought of a fake name to give when socialising with people, “that’s…nice.”

“Aren’t you going to give me your name?”

“Y-Yeah, I should…I’m Mariko Idabashi,” she lies through her teeth, adopting a name she’s heard thrown around the offices before – something to do with a robot for the upcoming series.

“Right. Why are we talking to each other, again?”

“Because, uh,” Tsumugi falters, “I’m a little…nervous about applying. Aren’t you?”

“If you’re nervous, you’re unsure. I’m not unsure, so I’m not nervous.”

“O-Oh, right. So, you’re decided, then? You really want to apply for Danganronpa?”

“Obviously.”

“And your talent – what would you want to be?”

“Anything. Anything that means something.”

“Ah, me too.”

Tsumugi senses that the conversation has drawn itself to an awkward close, and she backs away. She silently hopes that this girl gets picked for the upcoming season; she notes the name _‘Kaede Akamatsu’_ in her head before moving on.

* * *

 

Everyone is packed into one room, waiting for their names to be called. She takes a seat across from a trio of people, listening closely to their conversation. Analysing people without making direct involvement in their lives is her speciality; and she quickly learns their personalities.

There’s a boy with black, almost blue, hair, styled the same way as Kaede. Her first assumption is that he’s a wannabe protagonist with no more substance than most of the people here, but she quickly finds out that she couldn’t be more wrong.

The way he talks about murder, about dying – he’s definitely unhinged. She learns that his name is Shuichi Saihara, and that he’s been a fan of Danganronpa, obsessively so, since he was twelve. He’s being strangely open about his home life, and he’s not talking the way most of the applicants are; whilst everyone else is pretending that they have some grand reason for wanting to be on the show, Shuichi is being terrifyingly open about his suicidal intent.

Tsumugi knows that he’d be a brilliant protagonist – she’s already thinking of exactly which tweaks she’d make to his personality to make him a fan-favourite. Perhaps a love interest? Or a slight hint of hope underneath his self-deprecating front? Graphically, she imagines opening him up and studying the gruesome workings of his brain, getting her hands dirty tinkering around in there – she knows that this isn’t how the memory replacing and personality implants work, but the image of her porcelain hands covered in blood and knowledge enamours her.

When he talks about murder, his eyes light up. With any other subject of conversation, he’s shy and quiet, but the moment he gets to express his fantasy, he’s wild – she wonders if even the top scientists at Team Danganronpa could tame him. His hands move rapidly, his hair flies around, and he looks completely mad; feral, almost. No doubt he’ll shine in the interviews. He’s brimming with potential.

The second member of the trio – the only girl – screams ‘stoic wildcard’. She gives her name as Maki Harukawa. Like many of the applicants, she doesn’t have much in the way of family or money, and she’s signing up because she wants some control over her life. These are the only details that Tsumugi can really get from eavesdropping, and she hopes that Maki opens up more in her interview; she wants to read her extensive file, and then she wants to interact with her in a killing game setting. These three seem like they have great potential for a trio that the audience will love – and therefore, she has to make a point of letting one of them die.

Tsumugi thinks that the most likely candidate for death is the third boy, who introduces himself freely as Kaito Momota. She can’t quite figure this one out; he’s a contradiction – one moment, he’s talking about how great it would be to murder and get away with it, the next he’s talking about how he wants to be a heroic protagonist who dies saving someone’s life. It’s not that his goal isn’t clear; she understands that he’s in it for fame and fortune, it’s just that his methods are hazy. She likes it that way, they’re easy to manipulate when they’re like that, and Kaito could become someone that the audience falls in love with. Remove his psychopathic traits, replace them with blind optimism, leave in his recklessness, anger, and just a tiny splash of hatred, and she has the recipe for a brilliant character. Top that off with sending him to his death, and the audience ratings will soar.

Like she said, she will be the best mastermind that Team Danganronpa has ever seen. No more bringing coffee to the bosses after this.

* * *

 

She mills around for a little longer, stopping by a girl with long, white hair.

“Hi,” she says, “I’m Mariko Idabashi.”

“Oh,” the girl replies, “hey! I’m Angie Yonaga, soon to be Ultimate Artist!”

“That’s…presumptuous.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’ve learned in my life so far. My mum always told me that I’d get nowhere if I didn’t fight for it. But then again…never mind.”

“No, go on. It’s not like we’ll ever meet again. If we do, we’ll be different people, right?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Angie says, “well, I don’t speak to my mum any more. Or my dad. I spoke to my little sister for a bit but…mum stopped that when she found out.”

“Oh – why?”

“They’re like…super religious. And, y’know, I’m gay, so…”

“Yeah. I get that. So you’re applying because…?”

“Truthfully, I don’t really care about life. But I know my little sister likes the show and – it might be the only way I can contact her. She could see me again. And if I survive…she might persuade my parents to let her see me, y’know, if I’m rich and famous and all that.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

Angie’s name is called, and she waves a quick goodbye to Tsumugi before nervously half-running towards one of the interview rooms.

* * *

 

Looking around again, Tsumugi finds herself captivated by the sight of a small, purple-haired boy standing on his own, fidgeting with his hands and looking around the room so fast that she can’t keep track of his eyes. She approaches him.

“You look…different,” she says.

He looks up. “You say that as if you’ve seen me before.”

“No, no, I just…you look different to _the rest of them.”_

“Oh,” he says, “is that good?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m in the same boat as you.”

“Or are you? Most people here are breaking off into little groups, trying to make friends or some bullshit, but you – for the past hour, you’ve been flitting between people, watching them.”

“Have I? I guess,” she panics, “I’m just nervous about applying. Maybe I’m subconsciously looking for someone to dissuade me.”

“Or, maybe you’re part of Team Danganronpa, and you’re a mole trying to scout out the new participants.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she says, trying to keep her cool, “look at me. I can’t be any more plain and boring. As much as I’d love it, Team Danganronpa would never employ someone so boring.”

“Whatever. So what’s your name. Quick!”

“M-Mariko Idabashi.”

“Ah, you stuttered. Could be fake,” the boy plays with his short fingernails and avoids eye contact.

“O-Or, I could be nervous,” she brings back the stutter for extra persuasion; this boy is _dangerous,_ “like I already told you.”

“Maybe I’m just too suspicious, but I haven’t exactly got a reason to trust any of the fuckers here.”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

“I don’t know – should I?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says, “it’s not like I have anything to hold over you. It’s only a name; this isn’t _Death Note.”_

“Ah, you’re _that kind_ of Danganronpa fan. Should have known, you look like it. But whatever, the way I see it, either you’re a boring anime fangirl and you don’t get accepted, and I never see you again; or, you’re working for Team Danganronpa, and you can put in a good word for me to get chosen. Either way, I win. So sure – I’m Kokichi Ouma.”

“So why are you applying?”

“I’m not telling you,” he says, “I have nothing more to say.”

“R-Right. Bye, then.”

She walks away once Kokichi turns his back to her. Something inside her tells her that she won’t need to put in a good word for him, he’s the exact kind of person that each series needs. His personality won’t need changing much, just amplifying; if she adds in an extra few layers of deception and lying, she has a readymade antagonist for whichever lucky bastard gets to lead the trials. Her mind flashes back to Shuichi. Perhaps he would work well with Kokichi – or perhaps they’d be perfect rivals? She’ll have to draw up some personality drafts in her apartment tonight, her chest brimming with excitement, her eyes clearly mad.

* * *

 

Slowly, the room begins to thin as interviews take place. She knows that, once an interview is taking place, the applicant will leave through a different door – this is done to prevent applicants from telling anyone else about the exact process. Soon, she slips away when nobody can watch her, and walks through one of the doors as if she’s going to her own interview.

“Shirogane,” her boss greets her again, “I assume you got some valuable information.”

“Yes, sir. I have some recommendations for participants, and some ideas for personality adjustments.”

“Okay. Write them up tonight and drop the files off on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“Of course. I do have one request,” she says.

“Which is?”

“May I see Rantaro?”

“Shirogane, you know the participants of next season cannot see you; even with your disguise on, you’re a risk.”

“I know, I know, but can I just watch through the one-way window on his door.”

“Amami is…a risk. You know what he’s like, you know what he’s been through.”

“Sir, with all due respect, it’s been a year. If he isn’t stable now, how the hell is he going to join the series in a few weeks?”

“He’s going to be put through extensive memory therapy. We’re going to wipe him almost-clean and input just enough back into him that he’ll be okay in the game.”

“But sir, I thought it was against the rules to use memory wipes? I thought we could only…overwrite?”

“Well, Amami is different. We need him in 53, and unless we do extensive therapy, he’ll be fit for nothing. It’s in the small print of his contract, he signed that fucker over a year ago.”

“So…I could speak to him, hypothetically?”

“Hypothetically, yes. But I’m not going to let you.”

“Sir, for the past year I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve fetched and carried, filed things, written reports, handled legalities, and now I’m putting my life on the line to give you – to give the world – the best series of Team Danganronpa yet. Consider this my last request.”

“Shirogane, you’ve wanted to be a mastermind since you started as a temp. Don’t lie, I’ve seen it in your eyes.”

“That’s true, yes, but for once, just let me have this.”

“Fine, you get five minutes with Amami. But you keep your disguise on.”

“Thank you, sir. I promise you won’t regret it.”

He leads her to a little room, pulling out a ring of keys on a chain, before turning to face her. She’s surprised to see him looking genuinely concerned for her as he hands her a button.

“You press this the moment he becomes volatile, and we’ll get you out of there.”

“But sir, they said he hasn’t been violent in months.”

“You never know with him. Nothing is off-limits.”

“Hmm,” she says, “I guess this game fucks people up more than they expect. And still, there are people signing up in the hundreds. Tell me, do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

“I think we’re not doing anything that anyone hasn’t agreed to.”

With that, he unlocks ten different bolts, with ten different keys, and Tsumugi walks inside.

She sees Rantaro, handcuffed on one side to a bed; the room is pleasant, with a large window letting natural light in, and some paintings on the wall; but none of this is helping him, as he lies with his face towards the wall. Tsumugi suspects that he’s been crying.

“Hello,” she says.

“Go away.”

“Hear me out.”

“You’re one of them…I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

Rantaro sits up, wiping his eyes. He jerks his hand against the handcuff, but finds that he can’t move his left arm up to his eyes, so he makes a rather awkward one-handed effort to clear his face of dried up tears.

“Y’know, normally they tell me that they’re not in the wrong, ‘cause I signed up for this myself.”

“I’m not gonna say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because how could you know you were signing up for this? I think you never know until you’ve experienced it, and then it’s too late to back out.”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re not gonna try and choke me or something?”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t blame me though, right?”

“No, I can’t. I’d probably…do the same, in your situation.”

“Anyone would,” Rantaro says, “now go. I’m tired. For all I know, I’m dying in a few weeks.”

Tsumugi turns to the door, she’s almost through the threshold when she turns back to face him.

“Rantaro?”

He looks up at her; he looks like he’s the kind of tired that sleep can’t fix. His eyes are heavy, his face droops; there’s something in the air around him, something thick and depressing, and she finds it hard to believe that he used to be the bright-eyed Ultimate Adventurer that the audience fell in love with.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”


	2. Shuichi Saihara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shuichi wants to be a part of Danganronpa. He's fascinated by murder and death, and the only two options that he sees for himself are to become the best Ultimate Detective that Team Danganronpa has ever seen, or to die right this instant.

_Shuichi feels the knife press deep into the pit of his stomach, he curls into it, savouring the pain. His attacker runs before his face is shown, leaving Shuichi dripping thick blood into the gutter below him. When his hand finds its way to the wound, the purpose is not to stop the blood flow; rather, he cakes his hand in the remnants of his own insides and brings it up to the murky light of the streetlamp illuminating his bruised body. Beautiful. Blood dripping through his fingers, hot and heavy, droplets landing on his face like rain after a storm. It’s so close now, tracking down his face, no doubt leaving a terrifying, disastrously gorgeous stain; he can smell the iron within the wetness. The back of his throat becomes weighed down, as if he’s breathing in through a too-wet filter, and his own blood overtakes him, consumes him, becomes him._

_Instantaneously, he’s in a detective’s office. Watching from the ceiling, like some sort of phantom dissociation; he can’t see his own body properly, only the vague, translucent, almost-shapes of his limbs when he extends them in front of his face. Although he tries to scream, shout, say anything at all, nobody hears him. He just finds himself powerless, looking down at the detective in his worn chair, musing over some case file._

_A case file, Shuichi sees, for his own murder. He immediately recognises his broken, stabbed body in the pictures, and feels the ghostly wound in his stomach; it doesn’t hurt, rather, it’s light and airy, like something has been taken out of his chest, rather than shoved in and twisted in a beautiful flurry of metal on skin, blood everywhere, pain like ecstasy coursing through his veins. Death, he realises, is the most potent recreational drug of all._

_Looking over the evidence as best he can, Shuichi forms a clear picture in his mind of who murdered him. It’s easy, really, considering the evidence, the knife that was found, and the list of suspects; he rolls his eyes at the stupidity of the detective who simply can’t figure it out._

_Using all of his strength, he pushes his otherworldly hand against the pencil pot on the desk, finally managing to budge it a little. Getting the hang of it, he picks up a pen and circles the suspect’s photo – he knows he’s right. He’s Shuichi Saihara. He’s always right._

_And he dissipates into something other than death._

* * *

 

When he wakes, he doesn’t feel the way most people would feel having dreamed about their own death. Instead, he feels free, light, and he wants to slip back into the temporary release of being in his own mind. Still, something better awaits him; he knows this, because today’s date has been ingrained in his mind since he sent off his application. Bringing the slip of paper by his bed, giving him the time and date of the interviews, close to his face, he smiles to himself and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Pulling himself to his feet, he gets out of bed and slowly makes his way over to his en suite shower. As he lets the water wash away all traces of every day before today, he promises himself that this won’t be a fresh start; it will merely be the beginning of the most beautiful end. It’s no secret that he has nothing to live for, but that’s not why he’s applying. If death was his only goal, he would have thrown himself off a bridge or in front of a train before now – not that he hasn’t tried, but that was when he was younger, dumber, and focused less on legacy and more on the numbness of depression.

But still, whilst the goal is different, the ending is the same. It’s just, if he got to choose how he died, he’d rather be publicly executed whilst thousands of devoted Danganronpa fans watched him. For years now, it’s all he’s been able to think about.

Checking his phone as he gets out of the shower, he sees that his parents have transferred him another 50,000 yen; they do this every month, on the condition that he doesn’t contact them. For a while after they kicked him out at age seventeen, he lived with his uncle, but this arrangement didn’t work for either of them; Shuichi found himself bored and under-stimulated, and his uncle found himself frequently annoyed. It only lasted a few months, after which Shuichi broke even, and decided to make a change; the deal with his parents greatly benefits him still, and he has to do nothing except leave them alone. They don’t care that he dropped out of college, and they certainly don’t even know that he’s been planning his own, extravagant death for months.

When he sits in front of his mirror, styling his hair and deciding on a tie to wear, he pauses for a moment, his mind becoming once more enamoured by thoughts of death. The knife on the edge of his dresser gleams up at him, and he picks it up, twirling it in his hands as he stares his mirror-self dead in the eyes.

“Yeah…you’re right,” he says, “it was me. Ultimate Detective…Ultimate Murderer…whatever. I planned on you figuring it out.”

He laughs bitterly to an audience of air and dust.

“I’m not scared of death. I’m not scared, like you all are, of what I’ve done to you. This is my end game, and you played right into my hands…call it despair if you want to, but you’ll never forget me. You’ll never forget _what I’ve done.”_

Pausing for a moment, he imagines his fellow classmates asking him for his motive; a wide, terrifying smile creeps onto his face, almost a sneer at his own reflection.

“Why did I do it? _Ha._ You’re all stupid…pathetic…you rely on people too much; you relied on me and my stupid fucking talent. It was so easy to lure you all into a false sense of hope. You’re not talented at all, you’re not symbols of…no, wait,” he says, the façade dropping, and he speaks his next words with a murmur to himself, “that’s too Komaeda. Fuck, I have to pin this down.”

His alarm beeps, and he stares at the time. Shit. If he doesn’t leave now, he might be late. Picking the first tie he sees out of the pile he’s been deciding between, he grabs his keys, cigarettes, and phone, and runs out of his apartment.

* * *

 

The bullet train is full of menial people; going to work, going to see loved ones – it makes Shuichi want to be sick. They’re leaving no impact on the world, they’ll be forgotten even by their own family line once enough generations pass by; they’re all so _normal,_ painfully ordinary, and he hates every single one of them. The only thing preventing him from wanting the train to crash is the fact that he, only he, is important enough to survive.

Greater things await him.

He thinks this as he queues outside the interview building. Surrounded by people who he knows aren’t interesting enough to be accepted onto a wildly significant series like Danganronpa, he lights a cigarette, not caring about the people around him. He figures that they all have to have at least a small death-wish, so a little bit of second-hand smoke shouldn’t bother them. Anticipating waiting for at least an hour, he starts to pull his headphones out of his bag, thinking that he’ll re-watch the final trial of Danganronpa 52; half of him wants to get inspiration, but the other half wants to see Rantaro again.

Ever since he watched the last series, a part of him has been in love with Rantaro. Just something about his casual demeanour, his intelligence, his mysterious passion – Shuichi knows that they’ll be a great team. The anticipation building inside him about meeting Rantaro, not as one of the stupid Danganronpa fangirls, but as a friend – forgetting about all this – makes him feel somewhat normal. Of course, as normal as he can be, signing up for a killing game. But he feels as though he’s already formed a friendship with the Ultimate Adventurer, soon to be Ultimate Survivor.

Half an hour passes, and nothing much happens other than more people joining the queue. He’s enjoying the world he’s created with his headphones in, imagining that he’s in a trial with Rantaro, when someone abruptly pulls one of them out of his ear.

“Yo, you got a light?”

“Y-You can’t just,” he says, chastising himself for stuttering out of surprise, “you can’t just do that to someone.”

“Well, I did. Wait, while you’re here, let me cut in next to you.”

“That’s…”

“Whatever,” the boy says, pulling up the rope that cordons off the queue from the street and nimbly jumping under it, “I’m Kaito. You got a light?”

“Yeah,” Shuichi says, taking it out of his pocket and passing it to Kaito, “I’m Shuichi.”

They stand in silence. Occasionally, Kaito stands up on his toes and looks over the crowd to see if the doors are opening. Shuichi stops paying attention to this after a while, and instead goes back to watching Rantaro once more, smiling every time he says something intelligent. It’s no surprise that he’s a fan favourite.

Again, he’s pushed into shock by Kaito’s physical contact, when he begins to shake Shuichi on the arm.

“We’re going in, man!”

“Oh. Okay,” Shuichi says.

He separates from Kaito as he walks inside, finding a spot on the outside of the room. The interview information that he received told him that there will be multiple interviews taking place in separate rooms, so he can expect to be alone. That’s when he knows he’ll truly shine.

* * *

 

As he studies the people around him, his eyes fixate onto a boy with flyaway purple hair, also standing on his own. Although he doesn’t have an interest in talking to or making friends with other people, there’s a strange, possibly misplaced, sense of intrigue when he looks at this boy – something tells him that it would be beneficial to have a conversation before their memories get wiped and they become different people.

Before he can tear his eyes away, the subject of his gaze turns directly to face him and, upon seeing that Shuichi was looking at him, beckons him to come forwards. Shuichi falters a little, before reasoning that there’s no possible way this could go wrong; either they never see each other again, or they see each other again with the memory of this completely wiped.

“You stare at everyone you find cute?”

“What? No…I was just…” Shuichi says.

“I’m joking. Fucking hell, didn’t realise you’d be so uptight.”

“I didn’t realise you’d be such an asshole.”

“Well…I am an asshole, but at least I’m interesting. What makes you think Danganronpa will accept _you?”_

“I’m perfect Ultimate Detective material,” Shuichi says, growing angrier the more this conversation progresses, “and I’m smart. I’ve figured out every Danganronpa mastermind so far. What about you?”

“There’s no reason I should tell you. I’m Kokichi,” the boy extends his hand, and Shuichi shakes it.

“I’m Shuichi. You always so cryptic?”

“Nah, just trying on some new ideas for the show. I figured…if they wanna change my personality, they’ll have to figure it out first.”

“Smart. I like that.”

“Thanks.”

“So…why are you really applying?” Shuichi asks.

“Oh, uh…I guess I just really love Danganronpa. And the idea of murdering someone, I suppose. But I wouldn’t be like, one of those awful Chapter One murderers. Chapter Five, definitely.”

“O-Oh, you’re…ambitious.”

“You’ve gotta be to get into this game. What about you?”

“What?”

“Why are you applying? Don’t give me any of that Ultimate Detective bullshit, you’ve got a weird look in your eyes. C’mon, I won’t judge.”

“Fine. I just…really love death. Like, my own, anyone else’s, it fascinates me. I just want to…” Shuichi pauses, wondering if he should say this, but his instincts take over and his voice gets louder, his eyes lighting up, “I just want to get my hands bloody and raw, get absolutely covered in the thick hotness of taking away someone’s life and then…and then…I want to be found out! I want to experience the utter despair of my own plan being foiled and…I…I want to be executed in the most gruesome way! I’m gonna give the audience a show, I’m gonna –”

“Calm down Junko,” Kokichi says, “you’ll scare the whole room away.”

“R-Right, yeah, sorry about that.”

“It’s cool, though. I get it. I kinda feel the same, except I wouldn’t wanna be caught. Well, no, not that I wouldn’t wanna be caught, I just…I don’t really care. Once I’ve become the blackened, I’ll be fulfilled. Execution or no execution, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Shuichi replies, “maybe we could…form an alliance? In the game, I mean.”

“I think that’d be pretty cool. There’s usually a Chapter Three double murder. We’d be pretty good at that.”

“Only one person becomes the blackened though,” Shuichi says, “but I suppose that could work. I mean…I kill someone, get executed, and you get a free pass to just…enjoy.”

“It’s a deal. If we remember.”

“Yeah…if we remember.”

“Anyway, I should…” Kokichi says, gesturing to the interview rooms. Shuichi knows that Kokichi’s name hasn’t been called, but he also knows that the conversation is over, and this is the least awkward way to break apart.

“Yeah, me too, I should go. I’ll hold you to that promise.”

As Kokichi walks off, Shuichi barely has time to compose his thoughts before he feels himself being dragged backwards. He hits a table sharply, and winces in pain, closing his eyes to control his anger before opening them again and looking up to see Kaito, standing with a girl he doesn’t recognise.

“This is Shuichi,” Kaito says, “we met in the queue.”

“R-Right,” the girl says, “and I should be interested because?”

“Because I’m tryna get to know my competition.”

“If you just see us as competition, I’m leaving.”

“No, wait Maki, I mean…listen, I just wanna know who I’m up against. Or up with, if we all get accepted.”

“So you’re Maki?” Shuichi says.

“Yeah. And I got dragged into this conversation against my will.”

“Tell us, Shuichi,” Kaito says, “why are you applying?”

“You go first,” Shuichi replies.

“Okay. I wanna win! I wanna get fame, and fortune, and…no, that’s not what I want. I want fame. I want to be good. I wanna murder someone…or do I? I don’t know.”

“That’s…incoherent,” Maki says.

“Yeah,” Saihara adds, “shouldn’t you have thought this through before you came here?”

“Guys, shut up, I’m trying to think,” Kaito says, “I just want to be a part of Danganronpa. And yeah, if that means murdering someone, then I’ll do it. But mainly I just want to…change.”

“Change how?” Shuichi asks.

“Just…okay, every time I fuck up, I wanna just restart my life like it’s a game. So this is the perfect opportunity to do that. And sure, if that means lying in the interview, telling them I’m some sort of psychopath, then yeah, whatever, I’ll do it. I don’t really know. Stop grilling me!”

“We…didn’t do anything,” Maki tells him, “you idiot.”

“Well, okay,” Shuichi says, “I guess I’m applying for a different reason. I want to murder someone. I want to be caught, and executed, and I want the audience to remember me forever. I’d rather die at age nineteen than live until I’m eighty in boring obscurity.”

“That’s fucked up,” Maki says, and Kaito nods.

“W-Well, you asked!”

“Whatever,” she replies, “I’m just here because I want control. Simple as that.”

“You realise that they’ll take away your whole personality and make you someone else? That’s like, the ultimate lack of control,” Kaito tells her.

“Shut up. I didn’t say I wanted your fucking approval.”

“Damn, there’s no need to be so cold, Maki.”

Shuichi hears his name being called, and his heart leaps and drops simultaneously. At the very least, it’s an excuse to get away from the argument that’s brewing between Kaito and Maki. Without a word, he walks away, and he’s ushered into an interview room; when the door closes, the stark contrast between the silence of this room and the annoying chatter of everyone outside almost knocks him off his feet.

* * *

 

It takes him a moment to place the scenario in which he stands; there’s a woman sitting at the other end of the table, dressed impeccably as Junko Enoshima, motioning for him to take the seat opposite her. Once he’s sat down, she immediately begins talking.

“Shuichi Saihara, it’s _so cool_ to meet you! I’m Junko –”

“No you’re not. She’s not real.”

“Okay, cool, yeah, but I’m the closest you’re gonna get for a while!”

“You can drop the act. There isn’t a point to this.”

The woman puts a pair of glasses on her face and looks directly at Shuichi. “We find it helps applicants…adjust to the decision they’re making,” she says.

“O-Oh. Well, I don’t need to adjust,” he tells her, “I’m perfectly fine with what I’m doing. Can we start now?”

“Of course. First, explain why you want to be a part of Danganronpa!”

“R-Right,” he says, “I’ve loved Danganronpa for like…forever. I’ve watched every single series and I figured out the mastermind in every single one of them; it’s my life. And I want to be…part of it. I want to be the Ultimate Detective! I’d do anything to be part of Danganronpa 53. I promise I won’t disappoint – I…I can create the most gruesome murders. I’ll give the audience the surprise and the shock they’ve been needing! N-Not to insult the franchise but…it’s been getting kind of predictable, and you need someone like me. I’m not scared of dying. I’m not scared of murdering. In fact, I…I want to murder someone! I want to cover my hands in blood and create the most puzzling, intriguing, fresh murders there’s ever been! And I’ve also been thinking…about the perfect punishment for an Ultimate Detective.”

“Well, it’s obvious that you’re…passionate. But most of the people out there are passionate. What makes you different?”

“O-Oh, I…” Shuichi falters, drawing a blank in his mind; years of depression telling him that he’s worthless have finally culminated in the worst possible outcome, he could fuck up his whole interview because of this one question. No. He won’t let that happen.

“Because I’m what the show needs,” he says, mustering up faux-confidence, “and you’ve never had anyone like me before. You choose the same generic people every time; the optimist, the trickster, the shy detective, and it’s getting old. I love the show, but you need someone like me to spice things up. You need someone who’s willing to go a step further than death, I’ll plan my own fucking execution! I’m mad for it, I live for it, it’s everything to me…I need Danganronpa in my life, but more than that…I need to be a part of it. I need to immerse myself in the blood and the despair and the terror of it all! And if I disappoint you, you can just shoot me right here, right now. Because this is all I’ve devoted my life to.”

“Right,” the woman says, writing something down on her clipboard, “and what if we said we’d…say…lower your intelligence? Give you some stupid talent like the Ultimate Angler. Then, your entire ability to solve murders and create interesting scenarios would go out of the window. What would you offer us then?”

“I have something you can’t take away. Sure, you can adjust my abilities and whatever, but not even your technology could take away this…lust. This passion I have. Murder and death; they mean _everything_ to me. If you took that away, I’d be a vegetable, I’d be useless, I’d be almost brain-dead! You can’t snip away at the fundamentals of who I am…and that’s why…I’ll be the best Ultimate Detective you’ve ever had! I can promise that!”

“Okay. Well, Shuichi, it seems like you’ve said quite enough. We’ll be in contact with you within the next week.”

“So…did I get in?”

“I’m not at liberty to say that yet. We’ll be in contact with your result.”

“R-Right.”

“If you could exit through the door behind me, thank you.”

“Okay. Remember,” he says, “I can help your show. _I’m what you need.”_

“Okay, Shuichi.”

He leaves without another word.

Back at his apartment, he finds himself yet again in a night of restless semi-sleep. Thinking of Rantaro, of Junko, of everyone that he met today, and everyone he has yet to meet; he imagines them all into one entity – a knife, forged by and for Team Danganronpa.

And in his mind, it plunges directly into his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm sorry this update took so long. I've got an update schedule for this fic now; it'll be updating every other weekend (it's in accordance with my other multi-chapter fic, which updates on alternating weekends with this one; if you like Kaito/Maki, please check it out [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12756663/chapters/29101140)!)
> 
> I feel like this chapter isn't as good as I'd want it to be, so I'm sorry for that. If you did like it, though, please leave a comment!
> 
> (Also, the characters in this fic are 18/19 - the legalities of a killing game probably wouldn't let them be high school students. I imagine them being university students, or at least that age.)


	3. Korekiyo Shinguji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Korekiyo isn't applying for himself. He never does things for himself. It's always for someone else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This fic begins with a graphic description of self-harm. I'll put a warning in the tags but I wanted to flag it up immediately here. If this triggers you at all, you don't have to read this chapter; I've also put a line break after the graphic part ends, so you can just skip to there if you want to.
> 
> (Drugs and suicide are also discussed in this chapter, but I think suicide is a big factor in all of the chapters, considering that these characters are signing up to die. But I'm talking about something different here, hence the reason I'm flagging it up. Be safe bros.)

Korekiyo watches the dawn through the milky light of his translucent curtains; it fascinates him how somehow, light still manages to break through – almost as if his bedroom is a one-way system. The rising sun always protrudes into the small space, creaking light leaks across the dust of his bedroom, illuminating the choking thickness of his existence in his small apartment.  Still, he’s glad that the curtains are enough to block the outside world from seeing him, his actions, his terror.

Solitude sneaks its familiar arms around him, guiding his hands to the fresh razor blade. Although he makes no effort to vacuum and polish his room, he always, ritualistically, keeps his blades clean for fear of infection. It’s the same reason that he wears a mask over his mouth most of the time; his paranoia never releases him from his chains of fear – not necessarily fear of death, but fear of ending up like his sister.

Dragging the blade across his forearm, he hisses in the sweet ecstasy of pain, revelling in the sight of blood pricking in venomous bulbs across the line on his skin. It’s the only thing in the whole damned world that he finds beautiful, and the only pleasure he’ll allow himself in his life of complete servitude. Sometimes, in the forbidden secrecy of darkness, he reminisces on how his life was when he had a mother, a normal sister; before he became emaciated in his own addiction to pain, and terrified in his further greying moral compass. When he thinks of this, he remembers the beauty he used to see in the world every day.

Now, humanity sickens him.

Once his arm is thoroughly bloodied, he drags himself to his bathroom and looks longingly at the way the thick redness mixes with the cool water from his tap. Even when his eyes begin to sting with tears at the pain, he refuses to tear them away from the sight of something beautifully disgusting being washed away without a fight; for a moment, fear grips him as he thinks that he may end up becoming like that if he gets accepted into Danganronpa – dead without a fight, gone without a trace. For his sister, he will refuse to accept death.

* * *

 

He thinks of her as he prepares her breakfast. Despite having time to eat something himself, he settles for only black coffee, knowing that seeing her first thing in the morning always makes him want to empty the contents of his stomach across the carpet. She’s just a reminder of what he could soon become – a shell, a ghost, a remnant. But it’s not like he has a choice in the matter; he never has, not when it comes to her.

With a tray of toast and juice in one hand, he cautiously begins to open her bedroom door with the other. Having learned his lesson two years ago never to startle her, his footsteps are conditioned, as is the rest of him, to be light. Clearing his throat, he makes his presence known before the door creaks open fully.

“Miyadera?”

“Hello, Kiyo,” she says, her voice monotone and almost mute. He has learned not to expect much of her any more.

“What are you watching?” Korekiyo asks, noticing that the television in her room is on. She attempts to jump up and cover the screen, but his keen eyes are tuned directly into the program – he knows this one by heart, because she watches it often.

“Danganronpa 51, huh,” he says to her, “you know you shouldn’t. The therapist said it’s not good for you to remember them this way.”

“I miss them,” she replies, still no emotion in her haunting voice, “and I want to see them.”

“You’re watching your friends get killed.”

“We were never friends. Only allies. And I won, little brother, I won for you.”

“You know I never wanted that.”

“We’re famous now, you and I. Are the cameras still outside the apartment?”

“Ah, no,” he says, “we’re relatively free.”

“That’s a shame,” she mutters, “I thought life after Danganronpa was eternal.”

Korekiyo hands her the tray, taking the opportunity whilst she’s distracted to turn off the television and take the remote, hiding it up his long sleeve as he exits the room. He’s always conflicted after seeing her; the idealistic part of him – the part that is slowly becoming suffocated by his reality – wants to remember her as the sister she was before she entered Danganronpa; the kind girl who took him to the park and cut the crusts off his sandwiches. But more and more each day, the truth is overtaking and blurring this memorial fantasy. He sees her now as a shell of a woman, with little pieces taken away and added by Team Danganronpa to make her a caricature. She exists in a liminal space; her body a host for conflicting personalities and trauma that she will never shake.

Sometimes he wishes that she had died in the game. And he hates himself for it.

He’s unsure if the fact that she’s lost her grip on reality is a blessing or a curse. Truthfully, the publicity she – and by extension, he – got after she survived Danganronpa 51 died down after a few weeks. Fame is fleeting, and he understands that. But he thinks that, were she to understand that nobody knows her name any more, she would truly die. Every morning, she asks him about cameras outside their apartment, and oftentimes, he lies.

Her motive for signing up still eludes him; all he can fathom is some vague idea of fame and fortune. Fame, that lasted all of the first few weeks of her therapy, and fortune, which has quickly depleted. In the twilight months after the closing of Danganronpa 51, Miyadera had spent her winnings on cocaine and alcohol. Despite not being able to drive, Korekiyo had found a way, each night, to pick her up from whichever street she was almost comatose in, and bring her back home. In his naïve mind, he had thought that this was how his sister was doomed to be for eternity, but such lavishly reckless coping mechanisms died down eventually. Now, she just spends every day in bed, re-watching her fifteen minutes of fame and semi-mourning over the people she knew so briefly, and lost so soon.

Korekiyo somewhat knows what it is like to lose a friend. He sees her every day, and each time, she becomes less like the Miyadera he used to know.

Money used to mean so little to him, but now it occupies the forefront of his mind for every hour that he spends awake. Since she wasted away her winnings from Danganronpa, they only have enough left to sustain them in their modest apartment, and to put food on the table – mainly for her. Although he never admits it to his sister, he frequently goes without meals to make sure that their apartment is warm and that she is well fed.

And now there’s the extra cost of the medical bills. Last year, Miyadera was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer, one that, without treatment, will spread, leaving Korekiyo alone in the harsh world that he’s grown to hate. At first, he thought he could balance her medical bills with the money they had, but such a finite source depleted so fast, and now they’re struggling. That’s why he’s applying to Danganronpa – he’s not a terrifyingly monotonous murder-suicide fanboy like he assumes most of the applicants are; he’s just struggling to reach a last resort to keep his sister alive.

The only hope he has is that he will get accepted. _Hope._ He spits at the word. Even if he dies in the game, he knows that he will still receive posthumous prize money, which will go directly to keeping his sister alive.

Having failed to make her happy, he owes her at least that.

* * *

 

So, when he stands in the crowd, waiting to go inside to his interview, he feels no fear. Surrounded by menial, meaningless people, he tries to elevate himself to another plane of existence, one of service to his sister and the necessity of signing up to die. He has no interest in making idle chatter like some of the other applicants are doing, although he doubts that he will particularly mind if someone tries to converse with him. This whole thing, to him, is meaningless; everyone talking like they’re going to become best friends, when in reality, they’ll either never see each other again, or they’ll try to brutally murder each other in just a few weeks. It’s pathetic. He just wants to get it over and done with.

As he walks inside, the stifling humidity of a room full of people hits him harder than he could have anticipated. Immediately finding a spot at the edge of the room, he gulps in air as he surveys his surroundings; everyone is beginning to break off into groups, and he finds it fascinating for a moment how they can all so easily try to make friends, even with the implication of their presence here hanging over their heads.

With the wall supporting him as he leans on it, he scrapes his way downwards as if to make himself smaller; his height always gives him away in crowds, and the last thing he wants now is to stand out in a bad way. He merely wants to do his interview and go home to his dusty bedroom to immerse himself in his sadness and the weight of his responsibility.

For the first time in a long time, he feels the sweat and the heat of his mask on his face.

Whilst he’s caught up in trying to remember how to breathe, all whilst being terrified of exposing himself to germs, he pictures Miyadera’s face in his mind. Logically, he knows that he can’t catch cancer by being exposed to someone with it, but his mind stopped working rationally the day he watched his sister stumble out of a class trial with dead eyes, standing helpless in front of a television screen. Thinking of her reminds him of the reason he’s here, the reason he’s doing this, and it calms him down somewhat. He has to at least appear rational to even hope for a chance of being accepted into Danganronpa.

Suddenly, he feels a sharp violation in his personal space. Having developed, over his years of solitude, a significantly large bubble of personal space, he wonders for a second if somebody just passed by him too closely, but looking directly to his left, he sees a short girl with white hair standing next to him.

“Hey,” she says, “wanna talk?”

“Why?”

“To be honest, I’m kinda nervous. I’m Angie, by the way.”

“Korekiyo. Why are you applying then?”

“For my sister,” the girl says. In an instant, what was once immediately a menial, boring conversation becomes something that truly sparks his interest.

“Oh,” he replies, “how so?”

“I haven’t seen her in years. Not since my parents disowned me. But I know she likes Danganronpa, so I’m hoping I can win and then we can reconnect. Or…I might die. But at least she’ll see me, even if it is on a screen. It’s a risk I have to take.”

“That’s…admirable,” he says, “I think I probably respect you a lot more than most of the people here. They all just want fame and glory and murder. Can’t really blame them though, not when…”

“Not when what?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on, you can trust me. I’ve got no reason to tell anyone.”

“I suppose you’re right. But I pride myself on being quite reserved.”

“Think of it this way,” Angie says, “we’re both gonna forget this conversation even happened when we’re in the game. So whatever you say now, I won’t remember.”

“Oh. You’re not going to give in, are you?”

“Nope!”

“Fine. My sister…she was in Danganronpa 51. She survived, but she’s…sick. And we need money. So I’m applying so that she can stay alive.”

“Oh, wait…are you Korekiyo Shinguji?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So your sister was Miyadera? You look alike. I liked her! She was the Ultimate Children’s Book Writer, right?”

“She...was, yes.”

“I’m sorry to hear about her. I’d probably do the same as you if…well, I don’t even wanna think about it.”

“Yes. It’s quite…troubling,” he says, refusing to detail the full extent of his heartbreak over his sister’s state of mind and her sickness.

“Tell you what, if we both get accepted, we’ll be friends in the game! I can just feel it!”

“Friends…” Korekiyo says, “I’ve never really had one before. Except Miyadera. I think it would be quite nice.”

“Well, we’re friends now. But we can be even better friends in the game. It’ll be nice to have someone to rely on!”

“Yes…it will be nice. Good luck, Angie.”

“You too, Korekiyo!”

Angie skips away. He has a suspicion that underneath her positive front, she’s a deeply troubled girl; he can relate to her strained relationship with her sister, at least, and he knows that nobody is naturally that cheery and optimistic. Either she’s putting it all on for the interview, or she’s trying to fool herself into thinking that she can exist without the person she loves most. Korekiyo finds it fascinating, and he wonders how she viewed him – did she think he was creepy, or intimidating; or did she relate to him on a level that can only be reached by shared experience?

Whilst musing on his interaction with Angie, he walks across the room to try and find another, more solitary place to stand. Stuck completely in his own mind, he absentmindedly walks right into another person, only realising once he’s made complete contact; he almost falls backwards, but the boy catches him with one, strong hand.

“Woah there,” he says, “you good?”

“Y-Yes,” Korekiyo says, “sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you tried to murder me. Yet,” he laughs.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Gonta. You?”

“Korekiyo. May I ask why you’re applying?”

“That’s a bit of a heavy question,” he laughs again, “but I suppose I’ve just got a point to prove to someone.”

“That’s vague.”

“I’m saving it all for the interview.”

“Ah, right. Clever thinking.”

“Thanks. I hope I get accepted. I’m kind of putting all my hope on this.”

“Me too,” Korekiyo says sadly, quietly.

“Any idea what you’d want your talent to be?”

“That doesn’t really matter to me. As long as I’m in the game, I’ll have fulfilled my purpose. What about you?”

“Something unusual. Not maths-y or science-y. I’m trying to break away from all of that, you know? I’d like to be, oh I don’t know, the Ultimate Florist or something. Something that’s more personal than intelligent.”

“That’s strange. Most people want to be the other way around.”

“I know. I’m just sick of being intelligent,” Gonta says, “when I can be so much more. I’m actually like, really passionate about other things, like nature, but nobody lets me talk about that because they’re all obsessed with my grades and my _promising future_ or something like that.”

“I can imagine that must be frustrating.”

“It is. Anyway, I should go. I need to prepare myself for the interview.”

“Me too. Good luck, Gonta.”

“You too.”

Alone once more, Korekiyo tries to compose himself in silence and self-introspection. Pulling at his mask, he tries to get as much fresh air as he can, whilst still maintaining his safety net of imagined protection against imagined dangers. Were he alone, he could cry – he’s been so used to interacting only with Miyadera, and occasionally the shopkeepers when he buys groceries, and now two people have talked to him in the span of under an hour. He doesn’t know whether to feel blessed, bittersweet, or confused.

The time to muse upon this feeling is cut abruptly short when his name is called, and he is directed into one of the interview rooms, their doors lining the wall of the hall, beckoning him to seal his own fate with a signature and a sweet kiss.

When he lays his eyes on the interviewer dressed as Junko Enoshima, he scoffs, hoping that his mask muffles the sound that he involuntarily makes.

“Korekiyo Shinguji, please sit down,” she says.

“There’s no need for you to dress so ridiculously,” he replies, still standing, “I assume you already know why I’m here.”

“We did find it…interesting that the younger brother of a previous survivor applied for our show.”

“Is that because you know how much Danganronpa ruins people’s psyche? Were you surprised that, having seen the destruction of my sister’s life, I myself would want to apply?”

“Korekiyo, we provide the highest quality rehabilitation for survivors of Danganronpa. I can assure you that your sister will be fine.”

“Oh, she will? Is this including the cancer that’s destroying her from the inside out?”

“We’re very sorry.”

“No you’re not. If you were sorry, you would help survivors with more than just a few sessions with a psychologist and a one-time cash sum.”

“Please, sit down.”

Realising that he’s still standing, with his fists balled in anger, Korekiyo sits across from the interviewer.

“So, tell us, in your own words, why you want to apply.”

“Honestly? It’s my last resort. Miyadera is dying, and we can’t afford treatment any more. If I get into Danganronpa, even if I die, the money I win will pay for her to live longer. That’s the only reason I need to apply.”

“What if we were to send the money, if you died in the game, to your parents, rather than your sister? Would you still be interested in applying?”

“That’s impossible,” Korekiyo says, forcing himself not to cry or scream, “I don’t have any. My father left us all when Miyadera and I were young. I don’t know his name, let alone if he’s alive or dead. And my mother…she’s gone.”

“Would you elaborate on that?”

“I’m sure you already know.”

“We’d like to hear it from you.”

“You just want to watch me suffer,” he spits, “but fine. If it’ll get me into the game, I’ll tell you anything. When Miyadera found out she got accepted into Danganronpa, it sent my mother over the edge. She was never particularly mentally stable to begin with, but she spiralled further into depression. After seeing the first trial, in which – I’m sure you remember – Miyadera’s _ally_ was brutally executed, she couldn’t handle the thought that the same would happen to her daughter. So she made me some dinner, left me a note saying I should warm it up in the microwave, went to her bedroom, and shot herself.”

“Yes, we were aware of your mother’s death. However, hearing it directly from you gives us a new perspective. Thank you, Korekiyo.”

“Is that all?”

“Have you thought at all what you would want your talent to be?”

“I don’t particularly care. Like I said, I’m not in this for fame or glory, nor am I a murder-fanatic Danganronpa fanboy. I just need to keep my sister alive.”

“Miyadera…she was the Ultimate Children’s Book Writer, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, we could make you something like that. Perhaps the Ultimate Children’s Book Illustrator?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t want to be known as Miyadera Shinguji’s little brother. My reasons for applying shouldn’t affect my behaviour in the game. Think of it as nothing more than…maybe an _Easter Egg_ for a devoted audience to pick up on.”

“You wouldn’t want us to elaborate on such an interesting brother-sister dynamic?”

“Not particularly.”

“Would you be directly opposed to it? Even if it significantly decreased your chances of getting accepted into Danganronpa?”

“Like I said, my main priority is getting into the game. I wouldn’t oppose anything that made me less likely to get accepted. I doubt I have much of a choice anyway; you may forget, but I’ve seen exactly how people in the game differ from their true personalities. Once I sign a contract, you can do whatever you want to me, and I can’t object.”

“You have keen observation, Korekiyo. We could make use of that. Thank you for your time.”

“Is that everything? Did I get accepted or not?”

“We’ll let you know in a week or so.”

“Can’t you just tell me now?”

“We have to interview everyone first, for the purpose of fairness. But I will say – off the record – you have a pretty good chance.”

“Thank you.”

Korekiyo gets up, and the interviewer points to a door behind her; it’s different than the one he came in through, and once he exits through it, he feels as though he’s already signed his life away. Unsure whether it is a weight on or off his shoulders, there is nothing more to be done except sit silently on the bullet train back to his apartment.

* * *

 

When he opens the front door, he sees that Miyadera’s bedroom door is closed. Trying to pass it in silence, he hopes that she hasn’t even noticed his absence. It’s not unusual for her to be caught up in the haze of her illness and her wandering, depressive mind; sometimes, she doesn’t realise that she’s even real for days on end.

He’s unlucky – today isn’t one of those days. She opens her door the moment he crosses the threshold into his bedroom, and shouts for him to come to her. She sits down on her bed, looking directly at him.

“What’s the matter?” Korekiyo says.

“Where have you been?”

“I just…went for a walk.”

“Oh. Right. Sit down,” she says, patting the bed next to her.

“Are you feeling okay today?”

“I’m alright. I love you, you know. Things aren’t hazy today, so I can talk and stuff. And I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of me. We’ll sort out this money situation, yeah? We’ll be fine.”

“Yes,” he says, wistfully, “you’ll be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter; like I always say, comments are very appreciated! Thank you so much for reading. This fic has got quite a bit of attention, even though it has barely begun, and I wanted to thank you all from the bottom of my heart. 
> 
> To the people who read my fics, the people who leave kudos and comments: you are one of the main reasons why I keep posting. I love you.


	4. Himiko Yumeno

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Himiko needs people to take her seriously, and stop treating her unfairly. She hates the whole damn world, and every person in it who judges her without knowing her.
> 
> WARNING! The beginning of this fic involves men being creepy. It's such an unfortunate reality for so many women, and I hope that I wrote it with enough sensitivity and condemnation to show how wrong it is for men to infantilise and harass women.

“Look at her, falling asleep at the bar. She’ll be easy prey,” a voice comes from somewhere behind Himiko, and she pushes past her tiredness to perk up. She’s always got to be aware of her surroundings, especially when she’s out at night, mildly drunk, having not slept besides her involuntary sleep attacks in the past few days. It’s not out of the ordinary for her, nor does she think that she can’t handle herself if someone ambushes her outside of the bar, but she doesn’t like being treated like an object just because she’s petite and looks innocent. The blood that frequently stains her knuckles proves otherwise.

Pushing herself up from the bar, she makes eye contact with an older man across the room, and moves her head to indicate that he should follow her. The cold night air hits her when she walks out of the door, almost knocking her back so much that she can practically feel the whiskey sloshing through her gut, but she remains standing. With a quick, subtle glance to check that the man is still behind her, she walks into an alleyway and makes sure that nobody has seen her.

“I want another gram,” she says when the man approaches her.

“Little lady, you just had one an hour ago. It’s gonna hit you.”

“It already did. And I want more, so just fucking give me the coke.”

“Jesus, fine. Rat me out to the police when you’re nearly comatose in the back of an ambulance and I’ll fucking kill you, yeah?”

“Calm down, Iwao. You’ve known me months and I’ve never been all fucked up off the shit you deal, so just let me have it, okay? And call me _little lady_ one more goddamn time, and _I’ll_ fucking kill _you,_ got it?”

“Fucking hell,” Iwao mutters, “you’re as pleasant as ever.”

“At least I’m consistent,” Himiko laughs bitterly.

She hands him 6,000 yen and takes a bag in return. Slipping it into her shoe, she nods for him to leave the alleyway and waits for him to walk back into the club. If she were to walk back inside with him, the security might notice that they were doing illegal things, and the last thing she wants is to seem suspicious, so she pulls a cigarette out of her purse and lights it. She stands for a while before walking back to the club, cigarette still in hand.

“Woah there,” the security guard says as she stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray, “weren’t you just in here?”

Himiko doesn’t panic. She knows how to avoid situations like this.

“Y-Yes, sir. I just stepped outside for a cigarette,” she says meekly, hunching in her body to make herself look smaller than she is, “it gets a little…crowded in the smoking area sometimes. A-And I just needed some air.”

She’s an expert at monopolising on her short stature and innocent demeanour – after all, it’s very rare that people who don’t already know her suspect her of being anything but sweet and naïve. Of course, it makes her insides burn and her mind explode with anger every time people infantilise her, but she finds it easy to fight them; when they’re so taken off guard by her, they go down to the ground and bleed easily, pathetically. When confronted by security, she switches her normal manner of talking into one that garners sympathy from anyone around her – it sickens her how quickly her act fools people.

“We’ve just gotta check your bag, _honey,”_ the security guard says, and Himiko has to stop herself from rolling her eyes and slapping him in the face. She wants to scream _“I’m not a fucking child,”_ or _“I have a gram of cocaine in my shoe and I’m going inside to get into a fight,”_ but instead, she forces her face into a sweet smile and nods.

“You sure you ain’t out in that alley buyin’ drugs sweetheart?”

Himiko whips her head around to the other security guard, the vague trace of her gritted teeth showing through her lips.

“I-I don’t believe in stuff l-like that,” she says, “I j-just want to have a few drinks and t-then go home. I have an important interview tomorrow.”

“Her bag’s clean,” the first guard says, handing it back to her, “let me just check your ID one more time.”

Himiko fumbles in her purse for her fake ID; she’s less than a year away from turning twenty, but that’s not good enough for her to legally get into bars. When she hands it to the man, he brushes her hand with his for a little too long for it to seem accidental. Her stomach turns in sickness, but she can’t blame it on the alcohol.

“Himiko Yumeno, huh,” he says, “pretty name for a pretty girl.”

“T-Thank you,” she says. _“Fuck you, pervert,” she thinks._

“Anyway,” he says, handing her ID back to her, “you can head inside now.”

She shifts past him into the bar, sighing as she gets out of his line of sight. Every time she interacts with men like that, she gets more disgusted with humanity in general, but that’s not her main reason for applying to Danganronpa – she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of sending her to her death. No, she wants to walk to the edge of the cliff and jump off it by her own volition.

On her way to the bathroom, Himiko grabs an unattended drink from a table where nobody is watching her, and downs it in one go. The sharp taste of straight alcohol burns her throat, and she holds her breath in, almost as if she’s trying to savour the bitterness that builds from her tongue downwards; she begs for it to reach her lungs and choke her. But she doesn’t die, not yet, not here.

It’s a strange routine that she’s become accustomed to, kneeling down in front of a toilet, her feet tucked away from the door so nobody sees what she’s doing; although she doubts they’d care, anyway – it’s a bar, for fuck’s sake. She arranges the cocaine into neat lines and rolls up a note from her purse, snorting the whole thing at once. Everyone who knows about this tells her to pace herself, but she can’t. A cocaine high, even if it’s only for half an hour, somewhat helps the symptoms of her sleep attacks. Of course, when she comes down, the attacks come back anyway, and the other side effects of her narcolepsy seem to worsen, so she takes more cocaine, which is exactly what she’s doing now.

Some would call it addiction. She calls it illegal medication. Not that anyone cares.

Emerging from the toilet, she listens intently to the conversations around her, trying to pinpoint the voice that she heard calling her _prey_ earlier. It’s easy enough to find him; he’s brash and loud, everything she hates in men, and he’s gulping down a beer like it’s the strongest alcohol in the world. Weak. Pathetic.

“Ohh,” he slurs, elbowing his friend as Himiko walks over, “here’s the little sleepy bitch from the bar before.”

She grabs him by the collar and pulls him up from his seat.

“Speak about me again and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out, you worthless prick.”

“The little bitch’s got some bite,” he laughs, and she tightens her grip on his shirt, “I like that.”

“Well you’ll love this even more,” she spits at him, and punches him directly in the nose. Her middle knuckle connects with his lip, and she feels his teeth scrape down her skin as she follows through with the movement. He goes down quickly, hitting the ground in shock, his nose beginning to bleed; she knows how much damage one punch can do, she’s heard that it can even be fatal, but she doesn’t care. She never sticks around long enough to find out.

This is her cue to leave, and she does exactly that, walking out of the bar and quickly down the street before the security finds out what she’s done. Not that she’d particularly mind if they did, because she could always put on her innocent face again and tell them exactly what she’d overheard him saying about her. Really, she doesn’t think she’s a _terrible_ person – of course, she doesn’t think she’s exactly morally commendable, but she’s not violent and cold just for the sake of it; it’s just how she has to be, when she lives in a world that just wasn’t built for women.

* * *

 

When she gets back to her apartment, she’s reluctant to get in bed – naturally, she’s tired, but she knows that sleeping at night just gives her terrifying sleep paralysis, and it’s not something she particularly wants to deal with. Still, having dealt with it for years, she can put up with it; and besides, she’s already beginning to feel the cataplexy taking over her muscles. Suspecting that it’s something to do with the built-up anger in her body, she tumbles onto the bed, still in her clothes, and feels her entire body giving up.

Sleep, as she feels it, is not the release from waking life that most people see it as. When she finds herself paralysed; stuck rigid and immobile, the urge to scream rips through her body, even though she just _can’t._ It’s not like she’s scared – although she will be whenever the hallucinations start – but she just finds that whenever she’s prevented from doing something, the urge to then do it increases tenfold. The law says she can’t drink, so she got a fake ID. Her body says she can’t scream, so it’s all she wants to do.

The useless positivity of the world tells her she has to live, so she applied for Danganronpa.

When the hallucinations start, Himiko has to keep telling herself, in her mind, that they’re not real. When she sees shadowy tendrils creep under her bedroom door and start to wrap around her arms and legs, she focuses on the fact that it will be over soon; everything will be over soon. Figures begin to emerge in the darkness, blurred and unrecognisable, and she can’t tear her eyes away from them. They’re indescribable, like humans but… _not._ Something about them is just wrong, like they’re a second out of time with the rest of the universe, existing in a liminal state at the edge of a parallel world, crossing over in this exact bedroom right now. And they’re terrifying, as they surround her bed and stand, watching her with their featureless faces; judging her, waiting to strike the moment she lets her guard down, poised and ready to prevent her from ever leaving this brief eternity.

Eventually, they subside, slinking back under the door like wisps of smoke, and she wakes. Morning comes, although she doesn’t sleep much regardless.

As she sits in front of her dresser and applies makeup, her muscles begin to feel stiff and weak; they flop onto the table and her chin droops onto her chest, remaining there as her eyes close for a few seconds. When she wakes, she spits at her reflection and throws a perfume bottle at the mirror, cracking it so that the shards form themselves like ice crystals, just barely holding onto the base of the frame. Curious, she reaches out her hands and pulls out one piece of the mirror; a few of the others surrounding it also fall out, and her grip tightens so much that her palm begins to bleed. But she continues anyway, pulling each broken shard out until they’re all lying on her desk, amidst the makeup and the falsities.

_“If I fall asleep right now,” she thinks, “I’ll smash my face into this.”_

The thought enamours her for a second, before she decides that she’ll take on the role of Team Danganronpa and put herself – or, at least, her mirror-self – back together. Putting all of the shards back in the wrong places, she tries to reconstruct a new version of herself, but gives up when the blood smears its way over her reflection and makes it impossible for her to see anything other than destruction.

Once she’s finished bandaging her hands, she leaves to go to her interview. She can’t quite pinpoint whether it’s excitement or nerves that bubbles in her chest, but she wishes she still had some cocaine to give her the confidence she needs to land her in Danganronpa. It is, after all, her last resort.

* * *

 

The bullet train is crowded, but she manages to find two spare seats. Not caring about all the people standing up, she sits on one of them and puts her bag on the other, staring out of the window so she won’t have to make eye contact with anyone wanting to sit in the seat that she’s unnecessarily taking up with her things. As the journey continues, she feels another cataplectic attack coming on – her muscles once again go weak, and although she remains awake, she can’t move herself in any direction; she thinks it’s probably due to all the high emotion she’s feeling right now, but she hates it even though she knows the cause.

As her stop approaches, she desperately tries to lift her weak body to get off the train, but she can’t move. Eventually, just as the doors are almost ready to close, she gets a sudden lease of freedom and bolts for the door, panting as she nearly doesn’t make it. But she’s here – standing outside the interview building, in queue that leads to the rest of her life.

Whilst she desperately tries to take in the grand scale of her life in terms of progression from this point onwards, she’s jolted out of her thoughts by someone violently bumping into her. It’s a boy with purple hair, much taller than her, whom she assumes is applying too. She’s about to say something to him when he darts off, and she sees him pushing into the queue to talk to another boy, this one with dark hair, wearing a hat.

“Stupid useless man,” she mutters to herself, and she feels a tap on her shoulder immediately after finishing her sentence. Thinking it’s another person ready to annoy her, she puts on her most intimidating scowl, curls her fists into tight balls, and whips around.

But it’s…a girl.

She has long, black – almost blue-green – hair, tied in two twintails, and she looks like she’s in the complete wrong place. There’s something so…shy about her. Himiko suspects that she doesn’t have the fire or force in her to be useful to Team Danganronpa, but she supposes that she doesn’t get to make that decision herself. Oh well – if she survives this season, which she thinks is unlikely, maybe she could swindle her way into being a future mastermind.

“I-I’m Tenko C-Chabashira,” the girl says, extending her hand, “w-what’s your name?”

“Himiko Yumeno. Why you asking?”

“O-Oh…sorry,” Tenko looks over her shoulder and then leans into Himiko to whisper, “I just…h-heard your comment about m-men and thought I-I’d say…I agree.”

“Great,” Himiko says sarcastically, “but it’s hardly a conversation starter.”

“N-No, no, I mean…I’m not like…a…y-you k-know?”

“A what? A _lesbian?”_

“Shh!” Tenko whispers in an exaggerated tone, “d-don’t say it so…loudly. P-People will hear.”

“So you… _are_ a lesbian?”

“S-Shut up!”

“God, Tenko,” Himiko says, exhausted, “nobody here gives a damn. We’re all signing up to this fucking show with our blood. Nobody cares if you wanna eat pussy.”

“D-Don’t be so crude! B-But…yes…I g-guess…I am…a…how you say…”

“Lesbian.”

“Y-Yes. That. B-But I just wanted to talk to y-you.”

“You’re doing more stuttering than talking, Tenko.”

“D-Don’t m-mention m-my stutter! I-It g-gets worse when I-I’m n-nervous and w-when people p-point it out!”

“Sorry ‘bout that. Anyway, looks like we’re moving. C’mon. Stick with me, you’ll be fine.”

“T-Thank you, Himiko.”

As the line progresses, the two of them find themselves inside. Tenko immediately heads for the wall, making herself seem small, and Himiko follows her, having nothing better to do than humour this poor girl until one of them gets called to sign their life away.

“W-What do you w-want your Ultimate Talent t-to be?”

“Ultimate Murderer. Ultimate Street Fighter. Something like that. Nothing fancy or girly or pathetic. I want to show the world I’ve got guts.”

“W-Wow, Himiko…”

“Yeah, fucked up, I know. What d’you want yours to be?”

“I-I d-don’t know…I’m not…I m-mean…I d-don’t want…I don’t want t-to _be here.”_

“Then leave. Nobody’s forcing you to apply.”

“I-It’s not t-that easy.”

“C’mon…tell me.”

“I-I’d rather not.”

“Besides, they’ll never let you on with an attitude like that. You’ve gotta show force, like you really can’t _wait_ to rip someone open and lie through your teeth about loving them.”

“I t-think my p-parents k-know a b-bit about…never m-mind.”

“C’mon, now I’m just plain curious. Tell me why you’re applying.”

“N-No.”

“Tell me!”

“ _N-No!”_

“Tenko, don’t be an idiot, just tell me!”

“ _No! I don’t have to do anything for you!”_

“There ya go,” Himiko leans against the wall, smiling.

“W-What?”

“You didn’t stutter. You shouted at me, and you had that visceral fire in you. _That’s_ what Team Danganronpa want to see. There’s the Tenko they need.”

“S-So…you w-were pushing me…b-because you w-wanted to see if I could b-be forceful?”

“Yep. I don’t actually give a shit about your reason for applying. Just picked an obvious sore spot and poked it enough to get you to show yourself. Do that in the interview, and they’re gonna love you.”

“R-Right. Thank you,” Tenko says, hiding her face.

Himiko hears her name being called from one of the interview rooms. She nods at Tenko, and starts to walk away towards her fate, stopping halfway to look back and blow a not-wholly-sarcastic kiss in Tenko’s direction. The blush she receives in response makes her shake her head and exhale an almost-laugh.

“Welcome,” the interviewer says, closing the door. She’s dressed as Junko, and it’s incredibly garish, “please state your name.”

“Himiko Yumeno,” she replies, watching the interviewer sit down before she follows suit, “why are you dressed like _that?_ Actually, scratch that, I don’t really care. Kinda suits you.”

“Thank you, Himiko. Now, tell me…”

The interviewer keeps talking, but Himiko involuntarily tunes out. She feels herself falling asleep, and there’s nothing she can do to prevent it, like she’s slipping further underwater; everything is muffled, and her whole face feels static.

_“Not here,” she thinks, “not fucking now.”_

But luck isn’t on her side, and the last thing she thinks before falling asleep is how _ironic_ it is that she just doesn’t have enough luck to become anyone important. The words _reserve course_ echo around her unconscious mind, and when she comes to, the interviewer is staring at her.

“You really think I’m that boring? Huh,” the interviewer says in a Junko impression, starting to write something down on the board.

“No!” Himiko almost shouts her response, “I was…I have narcolepsy. That’s…kind of why I’m applying. You can fix brains and stuff, right? Give people talents and shit?”

“Yes, that’s what we do here.”

“Then I want you to get rid of this! I want it gone, and I want to experience life awake and terrified at the same time. ‘Course, I want to murder and be in danger and experience all that reckless shit, but fuck, I just want to _experience_ it.”

“So that right now – that was an involuntary sleep?”

“Yeah. Happens all the time. I’d be pretty useless in a killing game if I slept through my own murder, right? So cut me a deal – get rid of my narcolepsy, give me a cool talent, and I’ll make your ratings soar, ‘kay?”

“I must say, Himiko, I admire your…bravado. What kind of talent would you want?”

“Something that you wouldn’t expect from someone as small and sweet-looking as me. Maybe like…an assassin? Or a thief by trade? That’d be kinda cool. But nothing pathetic, like – I don’t know – cupcake making or magic or some shit.”

“Noted. And hypothetically, what if we were to be…unable to alter you enough for you to experience life without narcolepsy? Would you still be interested in applying?”

“Eh, probably. It’s not just the narcolepsy, I do like the show. And it’s legal murder, so I guess I can’t get more reckless than that. Yeah, I’d apply.”

“Right. Well, thank you, Himiko.”

“What? Is that it?”

“Yes, we have quite enough.”

“Oh. Right.”

“If you could just leave through the door behind me instead of the one you came through, thank you.”

“Yeah, sure. Oh…one more thing,” Himiko says as she walks to leave the room, “there are lots of interviews going on simultaneously, right?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Call _Tenko Chabashira’s_ name yourself. You’re gonna wanna interview her. Press her about her reasons for applying. I promise you, she won’t let you down.”

* * *

 

With that, Himiko lets the door shut behind her and leaves the building. She lights a cigarette and walks in the general direction of the nearest pub. There’s something inside her that’s just itching for a fight, and she fully intends to find one. It’s only moments after she walks inside a bar that her ears pick up on an opportunity.

“Damn lesbians, man,” a male voice comes from a table in the corner, loud enough to disturb everyone else, “they all go back to men eventually.”

She walks up to him and immediately slams her fist between his legs.

“You pathetic little homophobe,” she grits her teeth and pushes her fist down harder, “you can’t blame lesbians just because no woman wants you, you disgusting pig.”

“Who the _fuck,”_ the man accentuates this word to hide the pain in his voice, “are you?”

“I’m Himiko Yumeno,” she says, “and you’ll fucking remember me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this was okay.
> 
> I'm SO sorry about this chapter being like, a week late! :^) I went home to my parents' house last weekend and I just had a chill weekend without writing, and then I procrastinated this so much even when I got back to uni. Oh well, at least I met my deadline of having this one updated before my other fic (which is also due to update this weekend, lmao)!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all have a lovely day! Leave a comment if you can, please! :D


	5. Kaito Momota

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaito isn't even sure what he wants any more. Fame...fortune...to be a good person. They all blur into one. The only thing he knows is that he destiny lies with Danganronpa, as if his fate will always kill him in some form of spotlight.

Yet another sleepless night. He blames himself, as usual, but there’s just something so alluring about forcing his eyes to stay open until they burn, watching reruns of old series of Danganronpa, rooting for the ones he knows will die, falling in love all over again with the pretty girls and daring boys.

Because that’s what they should all be. Team Danganronpa knows, they _understand,_ how he wants to bury his fists inside his own chest and rip out his heart to give it, bleeding and beating, to the protagonists; soon, he will join their immortal ranks. Makoto, Hajime, the original ones – the _fictional_ ones – he admires them most, for virtue of the fact that they simply aren’t real. The rest, although still inspirational, just don’t leave the same itching drool in his mouth when he imagines how he, too, will become nothing but a story that can’t stop being told.

The name _Kaito Momota_ will burn the backs of everyone’s mouths, seething and stretching into a warped version of the man he is now. They’ll talk about him in hushed voices, how the protagonist of series 53 was so unique, so intrinsically daring and reckless. And of course, perhaps he’ll betray everyone, and that will only taste sweeter, licking the sweat from his nervous future-friends as one by one, they fall on his chessboard. He will play master and king simultaneously, smiling at all the right moments and captivating the audience’s hearts so that everyone trusts him.

Ah, trust. The most beautiful of all the lies.

Still, there’s something missing, even in his imagination. Because truthfully, he doesn’t know what he wants to be; there’s a part of him that yearns to be loved and trusted, purely because he wants to see heartbreak as the last emotion on people’s faces when he dies – but death isn’t the end goal. There’s money, too, and lots of it if he can play his cards right and get out of there.

But that’s the problem. Because _getting out of there_ never really factors in as a top priority when he thinks about applying for Danganronpa. It’s just that he wants to become immortal, be it through murder or love, and the only way to get there is to surrender everything about his current self and let Team Danganronpa change him into a protagonist – and that’s the easy part, because there isn’t much that he currently likes about himself, anyway.

Although his thoughts are all over the place, the one coherence that joins them all together is the overarching yearning to be a good person. It’s too late for that in his real life, but throwing that away gives him a blank slate; perhaps he’ll make all the wrong choices again, and it scares him, but having the possibility of being loved just burns a fire in his heart that he can’t possibly dream of even trying to put out.

He rolls over in bed and reaches for his packet of cigarettes. It’s a morning routine to smoke in his room, despite his grandparents’ disapproval – but he knows they’re too afraid of his temper to speak out against him anymore, and he kind of likes that. The power he holds in his raised voice reassures him that he’s a _man,_ and all the masculinity he’s been afforded in his life only plays in his favour, because Team Danganronpa wants that strength, that guttural madness that only whirlwinds in a man’s eyes.

Sure, he’s been called sexist in the past, but it’s nothing that really bothers him. People’s opinions of him either mean nothing or everything to him, and if he’s not totally adored and admired, then there’s no point even attempting to make people like him. Because he’s still the hero, however they warp it. It’s just impossible for him to ever be a villain, even though the role tastes sharply sweet in his mouth.

Once the ash has burned down to the filter, he closes his eyes and sharply presses the dying flame to the exposed skin of his arm, hissing when it stings and tears into him. The raised, white mark, filled with craters of ash, enamours him for a moment; it’s as if he physically can’t stop staring at it. Somehow, it looks like the moon.

And he knows now what he wants to be. Because branding his own skin with the cleansing flagellation of pain also rips away the flesh of his true self, allowing for a new, better Kaito to emerge. Someone who looks at the moon and reaches higher than it. _An astronaut._

Kaito Momota, Ultimate Astronaut. Yes, that’s what he’ll be.

And it’s a beautiful rebirth. He thinks this almost monthly, whenever he gets too bored of his current personality, or finds some new inspiration in something else, or if he simply hates himself so much that he convinces himself he’s irredeemable. It’s easy to just switch around his personality into something new, convince himself that he’s improving, when really, he’s just copying and imitating until he can’t remember who he really is.

That, he supposes, is what got him so invested in Danganronpa. There was a period of time when he truly tried to emulate the protagonists, but there was something missing, always, and he fell flat. But then the real fun began, with genuine murder, and Kaito, even back then, knew that he was always destined to give himself over to Team Danganronpa for one, final personality change.

One finality, heralding death or glory, or something that transcends both.

But first, he has to get out of bed. And he traipses through his room – the biggest in the house – finding something clean to wear. Once that’s done, he walks down the stairs with purposeful loudness in his steps, barrelling into the kitchen and taking the toast that pops up from the toaster as soon as he sees it. Nobody protests, even though his grandparents are sitting right there.

“I’m eating in the garden,” he says, which is possibly the most words he’s ever said to them at one point in time, and he walks outside.

He smokes again, now, even though he doesn’t need another cigarette just yet. There’s just something beautifully enamouring about the idea of charring his lungs black, coughing up blood, _dying_ and _being remembered._ If smoking will bring that closer, then he’ll take it.

* * *

 

When it’s time to leave, he’s already got his wallet and cigarettes in his pocket, so he goes straight from the garden to the street outside, making his way to the address on his phone – the interview building where he’s only got one chance to impress them enough to prove that he’s a good candidate for Danganronpa. No, not a good candidate. _The best._

Because he’s no stranger to lying. After all, he lies about himself every day. Even when he was in school, and before he dropped out of university, he’s always been brilliant at flashing a smile and getting himself out of trouble; it’s something he prides himself on, that even when his gums are stained with the blood of too many fights, he’ll always be able to be Kaito Momota – whichever version he may be – the man who can talk his way out of an execution.

With Danganronpa looming in his definite future, the idea of executions is always freefalling through his mind. It’s not that he’s scared of dying, it’s just that being killed by someone else seems like a way to broadcast to the world that he’s a _loser._ He’ll never let himself be killed by someone else, but it’s more than that – he doesn’t want to be executed, either, because people might think he’s pathetic or worthless. Which leaves him with the only option of being a survivor, and that’s not exactly the best way to solve his idealistic fantasy of dying in a blaze of glory.

The line for the interviews is long, but he has no intention of waiting there. He sees an easy target – a boy with headphones in – and he puts on his usual charm in order to cut in line.

“Yo, you got a light?” Kaito says.

The boy stutters, and Kaito knows he has him hooked. It’s not long before he’s lifting up the rope and ducking under, standing firmly next to the boy, who gives his name as Shuichi.

Shuichi, he finds, is not very good at conversation. But still, he’s intriguing, like he’s got a glint in his eye that screams _‘murder!’,_ and Kaito wants to monopolise on that as best he can. Of course, Shuichi is hardly protagonist material – no, that’s saved for the real players, like Kaito himself – but the word ‘sidekick’ echoes off the walls of his mind, and it sounds right. He just needs to get Shuichi on board, now. And he doesn’t doubt himself in that regard one bit.

When the queue finally begins to move, and the people at the front file inside, Kaito knows that he has to act like he genuinely wants to befriend Shuichi. It does hurt him a little to think of how he’s essentially handpicked him for betrayal, but he’s always done what he _has to_ in order to get by in this world, and more than that – to get what he wants.

And he wants that spot as protagonist. He _aches_ for it.

But Shuichi slips from his grasp, and he can’t muster up the energy to go searching through the heatwave of meaningless applicants to find him again. Instead, he’ll just…do something else. Find someone else. Not exactly someone to manipulate, but someone to talk to, at least.

And then there she is. A girl. But not like…most of the girls he expected to apply to Danganronpa. She isn’t simpering, or wordlessly strong, she’s…different. Her hair is tied in two long twin-tails, and she stands at the edge of the room, arms folded, like she couldn’t care less whether she’s here or not.

He approaches her.

“What’s got you so down?”

No reply.

“Hey, I said, what’s got you so down?”

“I thought if I didn’t reply you’d leave me alone,” she says.

“Well, you thought wrong! I’m Kaito.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh come on, at least tell me your name!”

“Will you leave me alone if I do?”

“Sure!”

“Fine. I’m Maki.”

“So why are you here, Maki?”

“I thought you were going to leave me alone?”

“Sorry ‘bout that! I lied.”

“Asshole.”

“Thanks. Anyway, what’s got you looking so moody?”

“You just keep asking questions even though I’m giving you no answers.”

“’Cause I know that if I keep at it, you’ll eventually talk to me. I’ve never been wrong before.”

“I highly doubt that an idiot like you has never been wrong before.”

“You’re talkin’ to me, so I guess I’m right!”

“God, fine,” she says, her tone exasperated, “anything to shut you up. I’m applying because I want control.”

“Are you gonna elaborate on that?”

“No.”

“Jesus, Maki, you’re so cryptic. You know you’ve gotta give them some shit to work with in the interviews, or they’ll just send you home!”

“I don’t recall you working for Team Danganronpa, so I don’t have to give _you_ anything to work with.”

“Fuck, fine…wait, hang on,” he says, seeing Shuichi in the distance, finishing a conversation with a smaller boy. He runs up and drags Shuichi over to Maki, not even waiting for him to compose himself again before talking.

“This is Shuichi,” he says, “we met in the queue.”

“Right. And I should be interested because?”

“Because I’m tryna get to know my competition.”

“If you just see us as competition, I’m leaving.”

“No, wait, Maki,” Kaito says, kicking himself for making such a stupid mistake. Makoto wouldn’t have made that mistake. Or much less…Komaeda. Or even one of his favourite characters, Mondo. They’re all good people to some degree, and if he wants to emulate that, then he has to step his game up.

So he’s kind, or at least, he tries to be. He tries to get them into conversation, talking about their motivations for applying, trying not to get mad when they laugh at his own incoherence. Because what would they know about him, anyway? They can laugh at his jumbled motives all they want, but it’ll be he who has the last laugh when he’s protagonist, standing tall over them both, his sidekicks – his projects – and they’ll love him. Of course they’ll love him. Danganronpa will tell them to.

When Shuichi leaves, Kaito feels that Maki wants the conversation to end. And if he wants to be a faux-nice person, he has to be genuine in part, and so he leaves her alone. Just him and his thoughts, playing the eternal waiting game.

* * *

 

Faces pass him by, but none of them seem like the kind of person he’d want to talk to. Something has changed inside him since his conversation with Maki and Shuichi, and it’s almost like he no longer wants to get close to the people he will inevitably see die under his hand. Or maybe they’ll see him die? Either way…it’s best to be reserved, even if he won’t remember any of this in the end.

Instead, he wonders how Team Danganronpa will change him. He’d be a definite wildcard if he was he thrown into the killing game as he is now – reckless, insecure, completely and utterly unsure of anything about himself. But he’s okay with them changing him, as long as they don’t make him into a comic relief character or someone uselessly positive. He thinks about the first executions, how they’re always an unimportant character – no, the first execution is unfit for a protagonist.

He wants to be a heartbreak of a bomb, packaged by Team Danganronpa. It’d be nice, he thinks, to be executed in the final trial, alongside the mastermind. A sacrifice of sorts – his death, for the lives of the survivors, and the death of the mastermind, too. But a dual execution doesn’t seem like his style. He wants to go out completely alone, with the audience transfixed on his breaking, bloody body.

So, when his name is called, he feels ready for anything. With pride in his step, he walks into the interview room, expecting everything to go smoothly. They have to fall in love with him. They will –

He’s completely taken aback by the interviewer, dressed head-to-toe in an immaculate Junko Enoshima costume. What’s it they call this? _Cosplay._ It’s something he’d do, but he’s too fixed on literally becoming anyone but himself, that dressing up just seems crude. Still, it’s enough to knock the smug smirk off his face as he sits down.

“What, does Junko Enoshima scare ya?”

“No,” he says, “I just think this is stupid.”

“I mean, you like, _totally_ are applying for a show run by me! So give me some respect, yeah?”

“You really want me to play along with this Junko crap? I mean sure, whatever. You do you.”

“So, Kaito Momota, what’s so special about you, huh?”

“I mean, I can’t really condense that down into like, one sentence. But if I had to, I’d say that you were lookin’ at your next protagonist.”

“Oh really? Well,” the interviewer pushes her glasses up her nose, “I _am_ intrigued. Tell me more, _protagonist.”_

“I’m giving you total control to do whatever you want to me. But I know what talent I’m destined to have. It’s always been my dream,” _you liar, he thinks, you thought of it this morning,_ “to be the Ultimate Astronaut. Y’know, reaching for the stars and all that? Motivating the rest of the pawns…sorry, cast…into making good decisions. And then, right at the end, betraying them all. You’ve never had a protagonist as a murderer, and I think I’m the guy to break that chain.”

“Interesting. And why should we listen to anything you’re saying?”

“Because my word is all you’ve got. Look, everyone out there is just dying for the spotlight, and I get it – I do – but there’s more to Danganronpa than that,” Kaito leans across the table and gets right in the interviewer’s face, “you and I both know that.”

“But what if we, say, give you a useless talent and make you a Chapter One victim? You won’t even get to experience a class trial. Would you still want to apply?”

“I’m gonna level with you here. That’s never gonna happen. ‘Cause I believe in myself! I believe in Kaito Momota! And if I’m honest…there’s more to me than just what I’ve said.”

“Do continue.”

“I wanna kill everybody and win! I won’t have to worry about the impossible once I’m rich and famous!”

“Oh. That’s certainly nothing new, though.”

“Listen. I can fuck up this show in unimaginable ways, rejuvenate it and all that. I’m just sayin’, give me a shot in Danganronpa and I’ll give it all right back. Even the best of your team won’t be able to conceive the murders I’ll come up with!”

“I must say, Kaito, you seem very…inconsistent.”

“Yeah. And doesn’t that scare you?”

“Hmm,” the interviewer says, “yes, you’re certainly interesting, I’ll give you that.”

“So what? You’re gonna let me in now?”

“You’ll know in a week or so.”

“Can’t you just tell me now?”

“Goodbye, Kaito.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he says, leaving the interview room through a different door.

* * *

 

_Damn it. Fuck it._

He’s certain that he messed up the interview. Sounding like he hadn’t even planned it all beforehand, sounding like he’d just applied on a whim. _Inconsistent._ It’s not his fault…perhaps he genuinely is inconsistent. Even though now, too late, he’s realising why he said what he said. Why he’s always said what he’s said.

He truly wants to be a good person. And he’s smart – he knows he’s smart. He’s seen the big reveals of every Danganronpa series, and when the characters see their pregame selves, they’re shocked, scared, confused about how the hell _that_ was ever _them._ So maybe he told the interviewer that he wanted to murder everyone…and maybe they’ll twist that around and make him a good person. Maybe that was his subconscious intention after all. Because when he thinks again of everything that he loves about Danganronpa, there’s always a part of his mind that tells him that hope will always win.

Hope that he’ll finally become someone good. Hope that he’ll forget himself as he is now. The inconsistency, the agony, the helplessness, the ache.

And even if Team Danganronpa make him a Chapter One victim, he supposes that that would be better than the hell he’s living in now. After all, it’s better to die as a good person than live as an inconsistency.

This is the final change. One last personality switch, and he’ll die as a good person. No more trudging along in a life of lies, not for Kaito Momota, not for a protagonist. _Not for a good person._ Once he’s forgotten all of this sadness, his death will be meaningful, even to him.

A good person.

Kaito Momota.

A good person.

Kaito Momota.

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket as he rounds the corner near his house. Walking into a little shop, he fills a basket with alcohol, pausing as he reaches the end of the aisle. And he texts his grandparents.

 **< To Grandfather: 20:11> **do you need anything from the shop?

For once, he waits for a reply. Because being a good person isn’t always about dying as a hero, or motivating others. Sometimes…it’s about bringing a pint of milk and some bread home for a frail old couple.

If only he could convince himself that before it’s too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this one! I think this was the one I was most looking forward to writing, so I feel like I didn't do it justice. I don't know...I guess I just hyped it up so much in my mind that it's never gonna live up to that in reality. But it's here!
> 
> And I'm sorry for the late update! I updated DHLMYHS yesterday but I thought I'd update this one too, because I kind of neglected both DHLMYHS and this over Easter, with momoharu week, and general relaxing. But...hopefully I'm back on track! And this one should update again next weekend, with Tenko's chapter, which I'm very excited to write!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you're enjoying this! :D
> 
> Also hey everyone go check out kathoo's amazing fic [To Repair a Broken Melody](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383791/chapters/33212787), it's set after the killing game and lists this fic as the inspiration, which makes my heart so happy!


	6. Tenko Chabashira

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tenko's life is not her own. Applying for Danganronpa is either the ultimate control, or ultimate lack of it. Depends on which angle you look from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER DEALS WITH ABUSE. Big warning there because I don't want this to trigger anyone. Feel free not to read (eating disorders are also mentioned, but briefly).

The stifling heat of two duvets smothers Tenko’s whole body; in the liminal moment between waking and sleeping, she sighs, trying to will herself back to a dream-world in which she’s anywhere but here. She feels the sweat on her own legs, tangled in too many blankets, and yet she still feels cold. With her head completely covered in the bright pink fabric of the duvet that her mother chose, each breath feels laboured, as if her lungs are struggling to expand unless they are fed with fire.

Breathless and sweaty, still, is better than waking up fully and going downstairs. Even thinking about it, about the confrontation with her parents, sends shivers rippling across her whole body; she feels the bruises, still fresh – no longer blistering in pain, but dully spreading out into dirty hues. When she was younger, she convinced herself that they were just parts of the sky, taken from between the clouds and pasted onto her to give her confidence and peace, but she knows now that stories cannot bandage wounds.

Or, at least, _most_ stories can’t.

From what little she knows of Danganronpa, she can guess that this is the one story that heals wounds, only to cause them again in the same place. It’s a scar tissue type thing, something rotten and horrid, broadcasting live too frequently. She hates how society is so desensitised to the deaths of these people, that they lap it up as a form of entertainment, but she daren’t speak out against it. Not in public, not to her parents. Even transgressing her mother and father’s opinions in her _mind_ scares her; there’s nowhere she feels safe. After nineteen years, she’s learned that it’s easier to just assume that they’re omnipotent, and try to make no mistakes no matter where she is.

And yet, she still has hope. _Hope._ A word ripped and changed into something disgusting by Danganronpa itself. Her hope is a lot more discreet – it’s not something she knows will ever happen, but that doesn’t dishearten her much; her hope exists in her imagination, where she can fill her mind with fantasies of being far away from here.

With this, she gives herself an extra five minutes in bed. Her mind runs wild, painting, with watercolour brushstrokes, a scene of serenity; a little apartment in the city, a girlfriend, perhaps a dog. Lots and lots of flowers in boxes on the balcony, spreading petals all over the ground. Bare feet, touching feathers, soft house rugs, making coffee in just a t-shirt, her skin free of scars and bruises. A lover with no hands, nothing to touch her with, nothing to hurt her with.

Unfortunately, as unreal as this is, it’s easy to get lost in. And it’s all to late when she realises that she’s spent too long in bed, when there are rough hands grasping at the duvet, grabbing her arms and pinching inwards, dragging her onto the floor. She stiffens up. It’s easier if she just closes her eyes and waits for it to be over; the times when she fought back are far gone, now, and all that’s left is the shell of a girl who takes each punch without a word.

In her mind, she is strong. But in body, she can’t live up to even her own hopes, let alone those of her parents.

Instead of being directly hit, she just feels herself being dragged across the floor and hoisted up; pinned to the wall, helpless. When she opens her eyes, sheer terror overtakes her body at her father’s red face.

“Remember what you said you’ll do,” he spits at her.

“Y-Yes,” she stutters. He shoves a flyer into her hands.

“You go there and you tell them to _change_ you. Do whatever you have to do to get in. Got it?”

She nods. When his hand raises above her face, she winces, waiting for a slap that never comes. Instead, a small voice speaks outside her bedroom door.

“Is big sis Tenko awake yet?”

It’s her little brother, with his sleepy voice, no doubt holding onto a teddy bear. At only five years old, she wants to be strong enough to protect him; the only way she can do that is to take all of the beatings and the hatred herself. She still thinks of herself as lucky – lucky, because her parents seem to have a fondness for her younger brother, and she hopes that, when she’s gone, they won’t turn their violence towards him.

“You keep your disgusting mouth shut,” her father says, “and don’t corrupt your brother. Tell him about nothing.”

When her father leaves, the door is still ajar, and she pushes it closed before her little brother can come in. She just needs a moment to catch her breath, and when tears prick into her eyes, she wipes them away and lets her body shake violently for a second, releasing all the adrenaline and terror. It doesn’t take her long to semi-compose herself, because she’s used to this, and within a minute, she opens the door again to see her little brother’s face.

“Tenko!”

“H-Hi, M-Makoto,” she says, hating the fact that she uses his name in response. Ever since she found out that her parents are avid Danganronpa fans, she’s felt sick to her stomach to think that their murderous lust is corrupting her sweet, kind little brother.

“I want a story before breakfast!”

“O-Okay,” she says, hoping that she doesn’t delay breakfast so much that she’ll get punished, “b-but only a q-quick one.”

“Okie dokie!” Makoto says, running over to her unmade bed and getting under the duvet. She sits next to him, cautious to cover any bruises left exposed by her pyjamas with the bedclothes. It would just hurt him to know. He climbs onto her lap, and she gets comfortable before starting to speak.

“O-Once upon a t-time…there w-was a p-princess who was t-trapped in a _b-big_ tower by an e-evil witch. E-Every day, the w-witch put new chains on her d-door, locking her in f-further and further as t-time passed. And she w-was very s-sad. And lonely. H-Her real mother and f-father were k-kind, but long gone, and she h-had nobody in the world to c-care for her. S-So she waited and waited for h-her… _prince…_ to come, b-but he never did. A-And she got strong. T-This little p-princess got strong, t-training her arms and legs and t-tummy and mind, u-until she got so strong t-that she broke through the c-chains on her door. S-She was g-going to kill the wicked witch, b-but she thought of how k-kind her parents were when t-they were a-alive, and she let her g-go. B-Because the two t-things she valued were t-the two things she embodied: s-strength, and forgiveness.”

“Thanks, sis!”

“N-No problem. L-Let’s get down to breakfast. We d-don’t want to make m-mother and father angry.”

She lets him lead her, as he bounds down the stairs and she’s left to worry about making too much noise and disturbing her parents. It’s a terrifying reality to live in, but she has to claim it and call it her own. The hope that she would one day be free of them is gone now, replaced only with the hope that her death will be quick and painless; that would be a nice change.

* * *

 

At the breakfast table, a thick silence hangs over her head. As Makoto talks about what he’s going to be doing in school, and her mother coos over him, she feels her father’s icy stare piercing into her bowed head; she can barely touch her grapefruit, but that’s not unusual. Having been hurt for so long, the only form of control she has now is to watch her food intake and see her weight drop, like the only thing left that people can’t take from her is her bones.

But suddenly, conversation stops, and her mother stands up. Fearful, but wallowing in the knowledge that her parents _probably_ won’t hit her in front of Makoto, Tenko tries to make herself as small as possible; a pathetic attempt that falls flat when her mother’s hard hand pushes onto her shoulder.

“Up, Tenko,” she says, and Tenko obeys, following her mother – ghosting in her footsteps – all the way up to her room.

“We have to get you dressed for the interview.”

“A-Alright.”

“I don’t want you wearing any of the ugly clothes you normally do. You have to look like a proper lady. I’d give you one of my blouses, but it’d hang off you, and I don’t want to give my clothes to…someone like you.”

“Y-Yes, mother.”

“So wear this,” her mother picks out a pink dress, forcing her out of her pyjamas and into the oppressive smoothness of fabric that feels alien to her touch, “and remember – what are you going to say?”

“I-I’m g-going to a-ask them t-to m-make me h-heterosexual and p-put me in their s-show.”

“Tenko, you idiot. Don’t _start_ with that. You’re boring enough as it is, something as great as Team Danganronpa would never want _you._ You have to lie to them! You have to tell them how you’ll be good in their show. And then put in the idea that you could be a love interest for a _male_ protagonist. Be subtle.”

“I-I’m s-sorry.”

“Now, once more. Imagine I’m the interviewer. So, Tenko, why do you want to apply?”

“I-I love D-Danganronpa and I-I t-think I’d be g-great in your show. I c-could have any t-talent, and y-you could make me a l-love i-interest f-for the g-guy you make p-protagonist.”

“Not _‘I think I’d be great’,_ but _‘I will be great’._ God, _I_ know you’re useless, but _they_ don’t have to know that! You have to sound confident.”

“R-Right.”

“And tell me, what happens if you fuck up and don’t get accepted?”

“T-Then y-you kick me onto t-the streets and I-I starve.”

“And why are we doing this?”

“F-For my own g-good. B-Because Makoto d-doesn’t deserve to h-have a d-disgusting l-lesbian older s-sister.”

“Right. The other children would make fun of him if they knew.”

“B-But what i-if they c-can’t change me?”

“Oh, Tenko, don’t be dumb. You’re making a _choice_ to call yourself gay, and your father and I have so lovingly tried to guide you away from it. But you keep defying us, so this is our last resort.”

“I-I…know.”

“Now go. I don’t want Makoto seeing you cry.”

_Oh. So she’s crying._

It’s so common for her to let tears fall down her face, but usually only when she’s alone. Quickly, hastily, embarrassed – she wipes them and lets her mother guide her to the door. Her father hands her a folder.

“This has your train tickets, your application invite, directions, and your ID. Don’t think that because I’m letting you handle your own ID card you can run away or anything. I pre-booked everything in advance so there’s no money in there. You don’t need it. And we’ll be waiting up for you to get back.”

“Y-Yes father.”

“Now go. I can’t stand the sight of you anymore.”

* * *

 

Tenko walks out of her house and rounds the corner before breaking down in tears. She’s always known her parents to be cruel, but the realisation of what they’re forcing her to do hits her all at once – they’re making her die, and they’re probably going to watch it happen. So far away from her bathroom scales, she can’t even find comfort in watching her weight go down. There’s nothing at all she can do except let the world pass her by, spinning along towards the inevitability of Danganronpa, vomit hanging in her throat.

She’s still thinking about how the world can possibly push so much unfairness onto one person when she hears a snippet of a conversation in the entrance queue. No – not a conversation – a hushed whisper of something she dares not say herself. Someone else _like her._ A girl, with sweet, red hair, and a terrifying glare on her face, muttering about hating men.

Not that Tenko hates men. She just hates her father. And she wants to be allowed to live as she is. No – she doesn’t hate men. She _despises_ them for the mere fact that they exist, and because her parents are forcing her to either die or pretend to love them. It’s not fair for anyone. But she thinks that she’s at least allowed to have this one thing. Her own hatred.

“I-I’m Tenko C-Chabashira,” she tries to introduce herself. When she learns the other girl’s name – _Himiko Yumeno –_ she finds herself stuttering through an awkward conversation about sexuality. Honestly, she hadn’t _meant_ to come out, but she hadn’t meant to come out to her parents either…sometimes, shit happens.

Sometimes, your parents hire someone to follow you home from school, holding hands with your best friend, and then they confront you and beat you until you admit it. Sometimes, a beautiful girl with fire in her hair and passion in her eyes talks to you about eating pussy when you’re both signing up for a killing game. That’s life.

And the conversation continues. At first, Tenko is enamoured by Himiko, but when she begins to pressure her into saying her reasons for applying, she snaps. For the first time in a long time, she shouts at someone, and she hates the fact that Himiko had to bear the brunt of that.

But…Himiko isn’t scared. Himiko didn’t flinch like she was expecting to be hit. Instead, she laughs, and comments on how Tenko’s stutter disappeared for that small moment. Even as Himiko leaves, Tenko finds her whole mind taken over by her – how wonderful she is, how unique. She wishes that they’d met in another time. The temptation to run into Himiko’s interview room and drag her back out, beg her to buy them both a train ticket and just _get out of here…_ well, it’s great, but it’s only a temptation. Nothing a good girl like Tenko will ever indulge. Her parents would…never mind.

Instead of trying to talk to anyone else, she sits close to the interview doors, waiting for her name to be called. Now, she’s on an impossible journey; there’s no way for her to turn back, and she knows that her death is waiting for her, but this isn’t like signing her life away. That would mean she had a life of her own to begin with, and she really doesn’t – she’s a vessel for her parents’ anger, and if that has to be done to protect Makoto, then so be it. She’ll take her determination to the grave.

* * *

 

So, when her name is called, she walks towards the interview room that she saw Himiko enter earlier. Her dress bunches around her thighs, and she pulls it down, trying to cover the artfully placed bruises – they’re not for any eyes other than hers and her parents’. No need to cause unnecessary fuss, her mother always told her.

The interviewer, clad in a bold wig and false nails, looks terrifyingly beautiful. Tenko, being as useless as her parents tell her she is, finds most women nice to look at, but this is different – she recognises the character from one of the Danganronpa shows her parents forced her to watch. Junko…Enoshima?

“H-Hello,” she says, “I’m T-Tenko.”

“Yes, I know. Please, sit down!”

“T-Thank you.”

“God, you’re very polite. Most of the kids in here barrel in talkin’ about murder or some shit like they’re _soooo_ unique.”

“A-Ah. I-I w-wouldn’t know a-anything about t-that. I mean…I wouldn’t…I w-would…”

“It’s alright, Tenko. I’m not assessing you just yet. Get comfy, get calm. You want some water or somethin’?”

“N-No…thank y-you,” she says, scared of the interviewer’s patience; patience means that it will soon run out, and running out means…she fumbles with the fabric of her dress.

“So, why d’ya want to apply?”

Tenko tastes the words in her mouth; they’re not hers. They’ve never been hers.

“I-I love D-Danganronpa and I-I t-think I’d be g-great in your show. I c-could have any t-talent, and y-you could make me a l-love i-interest f-for the g-guy you make p-protagonist.”

“That sounds fake.”

“I-I p-promise I’m t-telling the truth! P-Please don’t…”

“Please don’t what?”

“D-Don’t…uh…s-send me a-away just y-yet.”

“We’ve still got time. Look…I’m gonna level with ya. I just interviewed a girl called Himiko Yumeno, you know her?”

Tenko nods.

“She told me you’ve got promise. And I gotta be honest, Tenko, I ain’t really seein’ it!”

“P-Please,” Tenko begs.

“Look, from what I saw of Himiko, I know she ain’t the type to just befriend anyone. So obviously, you’ve got some guts, but I wanna see ‘em! And I feel like your reason for applying is a little…hollow. So you gotta be honest here.”

“O-Oh. I…”

“Remember, nothin’ you say leaves this room unless you get onto Danganronpa. You’ve got nothin’ to lose.”

“O-Okay. W-Well…my p-parents…I’m…they… _fuck._ T-They t-told m-me to apply s-so that y-you could…m-make me h-heterosexual…a-and it’d p-probably be a bonus for them if I-I died a-anyway.”

“Right. Interesting. And what if we couldn’t change you? Y’know, we can only go so far, I don’t think even _our_ tech could change someone’s sexuality.”

“T-Then I g-guess I’ll j-just have to f-fake being s-straight on the show. B-But if I d-don’t get in…I…l-look, this is m-my last resort. O-Okay? I’m not e-even a person anymore, n-not really. I j-just need to keep my parents happy s-so they don’t h-hurt my little brother.”

“Ah, you have a younger brother?”

“Y-Yes,” she avoids saying his name, “a-and if I g-get onto the show, I-I’d like any p-prize money to be sent t-to him. I d-don’t care how, just…m-make sure my parents get n-none of it, and t-that he gets e-everything.”

“I’ll make a note of that. Thank you, Tenko.”

“W-What? Am I d-done? D-Did I get in?”

“We’ll be in contact within the week. But if I were you,” the interviewer’s eyes graze down Tenko’s shaking body, and she covers up the thick bruise on her leg a little too late, “I’d tell your parents that you got in.”

“H-How do you d-do it? T-This, I mean,” Tenko says, “d-dress up a-and s-send people t-to their d-deaths. Y-You’re not evil. Y-You seem…k-kind. H-Human. How c-can you be both?”

“Life’s a game of truth and lies. Goodbye, Tenko.”

* * *

 

She’s cautious not to miss the train home. As expected, her parents are waiting for her as she walks through the door. She can’t even take her shoes off before they ambush her, vibrating with seething questions about her imminent death – it feels natural to lie to them about definitely getting in, even if it is a lie given to her by Team Danganronpa. That’s something she’ll have to get used to.

And they almost seem…proud. Because they let her go to bed without hurting her or making her cry – it feels nice, even if she has just signed her life away. But the strange, watercolour-hope feeling lasts for only the amount of time it takes for her to climb the stairs and find Makoto in her room, curled into a ball under her duvet.

“M-Makoto?”

“Tenko,” he cries, “look.”

He holds out his arm and there’s a deep scratch; the skin is cut in some places, and it’s red around the edges of the raised, white mark. Of course, it’s nothing compared to what she’s seen on herself, but her little brother doesn’t deserve to be hurt at all, and she sits next to him cautiously, terrified of the yet unspoken.

“W-Who d-did this?”

“Daddy. He got angry and…it hurts, Tenko.”

“I-I’m s-sorry. I s-should have b-been there. H-He’s not gonna h-hurt you any more, o-okay? Not when I-I’m here.”

“Tell me a story?”

“O-Of course,” she says, tucking him into her bed and sitting on the edge, making sure he’s comfortable. If she has to sleep on the floor tonight, so be it. Her demon of a father is coming nowhere near Makoto... _whilst she’s alive._

“O-Once upon a t-time,” she begins, “t-there was a v-very b-brave little prince, w-who was loved a lot b-by his b-big sister. T-Two mean d-dragons tried to k-keep them apart, but the l-little prince g-got strong, and h-his heart g-grew with k-kindness, and he would a-always be b-brave enough to withstand t-the dragons’ fire…”

He’s asleep before she can even tell him that the princess dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days is my way of making up for the lack of updates over my Easter holiday. And I'm sorry Tenko, you deserve better :( 
> 
> Anyway, I just wanted to thank all of you guys for reading and commenting on this! Your comments make me so happy and you truly deserve the world. I hope my writing is good enough for you, because you deserve only the best stories to read and lose yourselves in. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.


	7. Kirumi Toujou

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirumi just wants control over her own life, for _once_. For nineteen years, she's convinced herself that her porcelain public façade is the truth, but she can't hide from Danganronpa...she can't hide from the truth. 
> 
> Beneath the Kirumi she shows to her family, and the girl she is around her friends, something bubbles under the surface; thick and hot like blood.

Her family sleep in late, and this suits Kirumi just fine; it’s not like she doesn’t love them, because _of course_ she does, it’s just that being the eldest child in a family of six other sisters, a long-gone mother, and an overworked father, has certain…responsibilities. Responsibilities that she’s happy to fulfil, but naturally, the peaceful dawn milk-light allows her the calm quiet that she only finds in the early hours of the morning, climbing up to the roof, bag strapped around her body as she sits on the loose tiles.

The sun has not quite risen, and she packs a bong as the cold air cools her skin; wearing just a t-shirt and shorts, she should be cold, but sucking the smoke into her mouth and hearing the bubble of the water makes her feel protected, _alive._

It’s only a moment – a small, ten-minute pocket of air in a whiplash timeline – but it means everything to Kirumi, even as she slips back in through the attic window. She checks that her family are still asleep before checking that the mail has been delivered. Sorting it into piles for each family member, she sighs when the only envelope addressed to her is so obviously from Team Danganronpa – this is why she checks the mail first.

But still, she can’t exactly blame herself for applying. She’s always had a vested interest in the macabre, painting herself as a _Machiavellian villain_ in her fantasies, but there’s something more than that. When she heard her sister, younger than her by only two years, and the second eldest after Kirumi herself, talking excitedly about applying to Danganronpa the moment she turned eighteen, Kirumi had to intervene. She kept telling herself that it was for Keiko’s sake, but truthfully, she was just thankful that she had the advantage of two years, being nineteen already.

For once, she wants the glory. Nobody wants a second sibling on their reality murder show. No…this is Kirumi’s crowning moment. _Her_ Danganronpa. Years of letting her sisters lean on her, whine at her for breakfast and lunch and cuddles and days-out; she took them all gracefully, but now she’s bitter. Not at her sisters, or her father, whom she loves with her whole heart, but at herself for being so subservient that she can no longer get out of her spiral. This is the only way. Stroking gently the red eye on the black envelope, she swiftly hides it behind her back when she walks to her room to get dressed.

Plain. That’s what she is right now. Plain skirt, plain shirt, hair pinned out of her face as she stands over the stove, preparing breakfast. She hopes they’ll be satisfied with this food – Kirumi has become quite a good cook over these years, and she wishes only that Keiko has picked up some skills for when she’s…gone. But yet, she may survive. She wants to survive, if she’s completely honest.

It all, always, comes down to control. So, as she sets breakfast onto individual trays and brings them to each of her family members, waking them up in her usual, polite fashion, she informs her father that she’s going to be out for the day. He’s been working himself to death to provide for the family, and Kirumi picks up any spare jobs that she can, but the pressure is getting to him. If she wins the prize money – no, even if she dies, her family will still get her posthumous compensation money – her father won’t have to worry so much. So there’s another, more humble, reason. Something else she can fill the mindless void with to convince herself that she’s a good person.

* * *

 

Back in her bedroom, she applies heavy, dark makeup. It’s nice to assume a different persona, reminiscent of the first Danganronpa series – her eyes flicker to the small postcard stuck to her mirror with Celeste’s face on it. In her closet, no longer a place to hide from her terrors, but a place to look for inspiration to become someone else, she picks out a dark outfit and slips out of the house in high heels, still reeling in the sunlight that no longer touches her gently.

It's a short walk to get to where she usually meets her friends. An abandoned warehouse is the perfect setting, and when she steps inside, the candles are already lit, and the sombre music is already playing, echoing vibratos across the cold room.

“Hello,” she says, greeting her friends by bowing her head. They’re all dressed much like her – she supposes that having such dark interests in common unites them once they’re away from the personas they all present to their families.

“You want some shrooms?”

“No, thank you,” Kirumi replies to her friend, “I have to be alert today.”

“Today? What’s up about today, huh?”

“Oh. I believe I should tell you all. Nothing is confirmed, so don’t get your hopes up, but…I have an interview for Danganronpa.”

“What?”

_“No way!”_

“I’m _so_ jealous!”

_“How did you do that?”_

She silences all of their voices by raising her hand firmly; her form seems to flicker in the candlelight, and they fall into a mute delirium.

“It was Keiko’s idea. She wanted to do it when she turned eighteen. But I got there first.”

“Woah…that’s brave. So you’ll be leaving us all behind to become some big hotshot murder celebrity?”

“Not at all,” she sighs, “I’m merely applying out of morbid fascination. And it would help my father with the monetary value of a Danganronpa applicant.”

“Guess you won’t need to be dealing pills on the streets with us anymore, huh?”

“Please, don’t assume what I will and won’t do. It’s true, I will be financially better if…once I win…but I won’t turn my back on all of you. Besides, I don’t _deal pills on the streets,_ I produce them for you to sell.”

“So what if you go and get yourself killed? Are you at least going to tell us your secret recipe for making them?”

“I will write a small will, yes. But this is exactly the reason I didn’t want to tell you until anything is confirmed. It’s only an interview. I’m one in a hundred applicants.”

“But still, for you to have got this far…”

“Please, let’s talk about something else. I’ll have a full day of Danganronpa ahead,” she says.

“But Kirumi!”

“I’m going to leave now. There’s no point in talking about this until I know for sure whether I’m going to be in the show.”

* * *

 

Feeling strangely confident in her autonomy, she walks out of the warehouse and immediately turns onto a side street. She lives about an hour’s walk away from the interview building, and she reasons that she has enough time to walk there without getting public transport. Besides, she's packed a courage-spliff in her bag; although she rejected the shrooms from her friends, weed won’t impair her judgement because, by now, she’s built up a high tolerance. Something this little will only give her a comforting mellow feeling, and she wants to sink into that before she has to talk her life away.

The world passes her by, cars speeding much faster than she is at her gentle pace; the sounds of the universe collide in the empty space where her heart should be, rotting away at the void, pulling at blackened strings to make her a marionette, walking, walking, walking, walking…

Never stopping. Not once in nineteen years has Kirumi Toujou stopped. At this point, she feels as if she’s just a clockwork mannequin, winding herself up to prevent the inevitable, turning the key each morning and letting it rust into a permanent working position. Finally, she’s handing the key to someone else – and it’s giving up the control of her puppet-master that makes her truly free.

Or, at least, she has to believe that.

Standing quietly in the queue, she finds her head poking above the crowd; she’s always been tall, but right now, she’d rather not stand out. Shuffling forwards, the people around her barely moving, she almost trips over a small man who looks up at her with a glare.

“Watch your fuckin’ step,” he growls.

“Apologies,” she says, wondering why the hell she’s apologising to someone who, quite frankly, is downright rude.

“Go on…I’m waitin’ for it. You _couldn’t see me down there?_ Or maybe you _nearly stepped on me?_ Get it over with, I’ve heard ‘em all.”

“I wasn’t…I just…I’m Kirumi Toujou,” she extends her hand, trying her hardest not to lean down when he reaches up to shake it.

“Ryoma Hoshi. What brings a pretty lady like you here, eh?”

“Oh, a multitude of reasons, I suppose.”

“Cryptic. Well, at least you seem a little bit original. All these mindless fucks in the crowd, look at ‘em, lusting for murder like they ain’t all the same boring shits. Guess I’m no exception, though,” he laughs, “I got a point to prove.”

“Oh?”

“Besides the point,” Ryoma avoids her gaze, “you won’t wanna hear about all my drama. And whatever, if I get in, I’ll still get to get my hands all bloody, which is always a plus.”

“Ah.”

“You ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Yes…I suppose I’m not. Thank you, Ryoma,” Kirumi says.

“Weird,” he mutters, but he flashes her a strange smile as he becomes lost in the crowd of people finally piling inside.

And it’s strange, because a conversation in which she didn’t participate much has opened her mind to the genuine truth. She’s been living a life of lies, and Ryoma’s blatant honesty has shattered and jarred something within her.

She isn’t doing this for her father. She isn’t doing this to protect Keiko. She’s doing it because she’s bitter. Ice-cold, hardened-heart, Kirumi Toujou; _bitter._ Wrap it up any way and it all boils down to the same, layers of thick, congealing breakfasts and the choking dust of housework peel away, like strips of flesh, to expose the acid within her.

And she likes that word. It _empowers_ her. Bitter, spiteful, mean, murderous, _remembered._ There’s a spotlight opening up just for her and she’ll fight, tooth and nail, to get to it before anyone else. She realises now that she’ll do anything – she’d swim naked through a tank of piranhas, or be struck by lightning, or betray her family, or rip her hands apart on the thorns of victory. That’s just how determination works.

If she won’t spit blood and rip skin to get to what she wants, then she doesn’t deserve it.

Her eyes, keener now, almost vivid alongside the venom in her veins, search out people to fuel her need to satiate this bitterness. Sure, she isn’t going to murder someone in this exact room, but she wants to meet likeminded people, immerse herself in the wet heat of blood not yet spilled. She almost feels it on her hands, beautifully dripping down, reflecting in some sort of stage light to become a twinkle in her eye; the rouge on her cheeks will be tainted…no, made _real…_ by the crust under her nails. Destruction is so wild. So free.

So, when she’s approached by a girl with blonde hair, styled in typical protagonist fashion, Kirumi hopes that she’ll find some form of… _entertainment…_ in her.

“Hello,” she says, still adopting her polite façade to gauge the situation, “I’m Kirumi Toujou.”

“Kaede Akamatsu. I’d say nice to meet’cha, but I guess your hands might be around my throat in a few weeks. Whatever, that’s kinda hot if you think about it, right?”

“I…I guess?”

“Sorry. Caught you off guard there,” Kaede shakes Kirumi’s hand, “I’m not exactly a _shy_ bi.”

“Oh, so you’re…”

“Kirumi, honey, I’m applying to die. Don’t think it matters if I like a bit of girl on girl action.”

“Right. Yes. I was only going to add on that…I also enjoy that.”

“Hey, maybe we could team up and give the viewers a _real_ show in the game?”

“Aren’t you here to murder?”

“Eh, it’s complicated,” Kaede sighs, biting her nails and murmuring something about how her hands look ugly, “I don’t really care either way.”

“Then why apply? If you don’t care, why take a spot away from someone who dedicates their life to Danganronpa?”

“’Cause I don’t give a shit about them anyway. They can have as many fucking shrines to Kirigiri or Naegi or whatever, it still won’t make them a compelling person.”

“You’re right. Half the people in here are practically dead already, they’re so _boring.”_

“Glad to know you’re on board. So what are you, Kirumi? Killer or victim?”

“You missed _survivor.”_

“Let’s be real, nobody _survives_ Danganronpa. The moment they’ve got your signature, you – the _you_ that you are now – that’s all gone. Crushed, disintegrated, whatever. Boom.”

“That could be a good thing,” Kirumi says.

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“So,” she stares at Kaede, trying to figure her out, “what do you want your talent to be?”

“Don’t really care. Just something that’s, like, meaningful, y’know?”

“I get that. I’d wanna be something…self-serving. Call it selfish, I don’t care.”

“It’s not selfish, Kirumi. It’s _real.”_

“Yeah, I suppose.”

* * *

 

She hears her name being called from the very first interview room; the door hangs open, but nobody stands there, just an empty void in a line of indistinguishable blocks of wood.

“Kirumi Toujou,” the interviewer says, dressed head to toe in immaculate Junko Enoshima cosplay, “welcome.”

“Thanks,” she replies, taking a seat, still feeling strangely dissociated from the reality that she’s sat in front of a perfect replica of the character she’s growing to love more and more each second.

“So, Kirumi, what brings you here?”

“Flat out honesty…? I didn’t know until I entered the building. Y’know? I was trying to convince myself that I was doing this to get prize money for my dad, or to protect my sister from applying, or –”

“Your sister being Keiko Toujou?”

“How do you know?”

“She contacted us a few weeks ago. I seem to recall her specifically stating – she was adamant – that auditioning was _her_ idea and that we shouldn’t let you in.”

“I-I thought she didn’t know that I was…?”

“Evidently she did. To be honest, she seems like a run-of-the-mill candidate, so it’s doubtful that we would have accepted her over you anyway.”

_“Fucking bitch,”_ Kirumi mutters, her hands subconsciously forming into fists at the thought of her sister, scheming, deceiving, probably under the guise of ‘protecting’ her. Something wicked must run in the blood.

“So, Kirumi, about _you_ this time. What makes you unique? And why did you only realise why you wanted to audition once you’d entered the building?”

“Well…at first, I did think that I was doing this for noble reasons or whatever. But I saw the applicants, saw their eyes, and I…something just sparked within me. I want control. Ultimate, complete control over my own life for once, and if that control means stabbing someone to death and covering a crime scene in false clues, then I’ll do it. My whole life has been about pleasing others, and now I can _finally_ be myself…and I’d please the audience, too. It’s everything I could ever want.”

“You’re certainly passionate. So, what talent would you want?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Something suspicious and dark, maybe? I want people to see me, and understand _nothing._ I’m sick of being used by people. I want them to feel what it’s like when I bite back, you know?”

“I definitely know,” the interviewer leans forward, “and between me and you, I’m the same. That feeling of blood, stabbing someone, living in suspicion, _being someone else…_ it’s like a drug to me. The ecstasy of it, the rush, _god,_ the fucking rush of it. Even just working for Danganronpa sets you ablaze. Would you like that, Kirumi? Would you like to work for Team Danganronpa?”

“What’s the difference? Between applicant and worker, I mean.”

“Oh, well, obviously, Team Danganronpa employees don’t necessarily participate in killing games.”

“Then no.”

“No?”

“No.”

“This is the offer of a _lifetime.”_

“And I’m saying no. Thank you.”

“You’ve got some guts, Kirumi.”

“So, what was all this, a test? If I refuse the offer, you know I’m genuinely interested in applying?”

“Partly. You’re a smart one. But really, Kirumi. Survive this series, and there’s most likely a job spot for you on the horizon.”

“Mastermind,” she says, her eyes fixed on the interviewer’s pale face.

“Pardon?”

“Mastermind. That’s what I’ll be. If I survive all this, I’ll be your mastermind. Nothing less.”

* * *

 

Turning on her heel, she exits out of a separate door to the one she came in from. Her stride, stronger and more purposeful now, marks her presence along every street that she turns down; a dangerous, villainous, bitch of a character, hands shaking with withdrawal – the itch to murder overcoming her. She shakes, her whole body tremoring in excitement and exhilaration. A beautiful murder. A beautiful murderer.

Kirumi Toujou. Executioner, and prisoner. Freed into a whole new hell.

She pushes her front door open and doesn’t return Keiko’s greeting, pretending that she simply didn’t hear her say hello. There’s still a part of her that feels as if she needs to maintain her polite, helpful front.

But it’s not easy any more. Even now, before Team Danganronpa have managed to get inside her mind, she’s a changed woman. A woman with nothing left to lose; a family that evidently don’t care for her, a group of friends who want her fame. Yes, Kirumi Toujou can trust _nobody._ She doesn’t love anybody. She just loves the beaming heat of an imaginary spotlight warming her whole body until it burns.

Letting her arms fall down either side of her bed, the ceiling looks so inviting to her unfocused eyes. All the patterns and paint chips become something disgusting, like the insides of a corpse, all mangled and brutal; if she thinks hard enough, she can feel the blood drip onto her forehead, marking her forever. Blackened.

“What’s for dinner, Kirumi?” Keiko asks, her voice thick with false sweetness.

“Whatever. Just order takeout.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this one! Comments are always so appreciated on this, I really value them all!
> 
> Thank you for reading :D


	8. Angie Yonaga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angie _has_ to apply for Danganronpa. She doesn't have a choice. It's for a cause much greater than her.

Soft sunlight creeps into Angie’s room as she lies, already awake. The small plants on her window-ledge droop slightly; she hasn’t watered them in a week or so, because she’s spent most of her time picking up extra shifts at work to afford this tiny studio apartment. Her life is a small, one-room, tragedy – she sleeps, eats, and cooks in the same space, with a small bathroom bordering off from this so that she can shower. She doesn’t mind it though, because it’s completely hers.

And of course, she’s taken today off work. Her manager doesn’t mind – she always covers for everybody else and spends most of her time serving mediocre meals to rude customers, but it allows her to live. She’s _allowed_ to live; it’s a privilege that she tries to gently hold onto, a reminder that her parents are far, far away.

Still, the distance from her parents comes with the heart-breaking downside of being distant, also, from her younger sister. At age fifteen, Leilani can’t exactly live under any rule except the harsh grasp of her parents. It was a hard choice for Angie to make, although it wasn’t wholly her _own_ choice – every day, she’s burdened by the guilt of leaving Leilani behind to fend for herself in that domestic wilderness.

Dragging herself out of bed, she walks towards her countertop and puts two slices of bread in the toaster; she pours a cup of peppermint tea as she makes her bed, wincing a little when she opens her curtains and lets the full extent of the sunshine seep onto her face. The unexpected pop of the toaster makes her jump a little, and she tries to calm herself down by reminding herself that yes, she has locked all of her doors and no, nobody is going to get inside and hurt her.

It's not exactly an irrational fear, either. Because it isn’t just her parents who don’t accept her; there’s a large majority of the world that looks down on her for her sexuality, skin colour, or both. Still, the most beautiful thing in the whole world to her is the peace that she can find in herself, living alone, and she reasons that she must be blessed by a different entity to the one her parents believe in – a kind God, one who created her with care and love; she is exactly how she was always meant to be.

This thought, possibly the only happy one she ever has, dissolves in her mind once she realises that she’s absentmindedly cut the crusts off her toast and spread raspberry jam across the bread. That’s…how she used to make breakfast for Leilani.

* * *

 

_Her parents are still in bed, sleeping in after another night of fighting and partying and drinking. Leilani had slept in Angie’s bed again – scared of her own mother and father – and Angie had told her wonderful stories to get her to calm down. The story is always the same, of a peaceful island where everybody lives together in love and harmony, dancing in the soft starlight and accepting each other._

_She cuts the crusts off Leilani’s toast and sits across from her at the table._

_“Aaaaangie,” Leilani says, “can we please watch Danganronpa?”_

_“Of course, sweetheart.”_

_Angie doesn’t really like Danganronpa, but it’s her little sister’s whole life, so she obliges._

* * *

 

Eating alone, Angie tries to remember exactly how her Leilani’s face looks. The toast, with the crusts off, tastes bitter in her mouth; memories flooding back to her all too fast. How long has it been since she’s seen Leilani? A year? Two? Life without her little sister is just a constant hell of wondering whether her parents are treating her the way they treated…

No. She’s going to sort everything out, today, and then she’ll get Leilani out of there. It’ll be nice to leave this apartment, at last. Perhaps she’ll finally find an island like that one she always told Leilani about, and they’ll move there together – Angie can be herself, and Leilani won’t grow up under the bitterness of her mother and father; Angie always prides herself on the fact that she was more of a mother to Leilani than her own, actual mother.

And that’s why she’s so comfortable – no, rather, more like she’s willing – to sacrifice her life to give Leilani another chance at the peaceful life she deserves.

* * *

 

_She’s drunk. It’s her own fault, she’s been prey to her parents’ strictness for too long, and she thought it wouldn’t hurt to just go to one bar and drown her sorrows. Just once. But now she’s home, and the lights are still on in her house. Although she wishes she could just turn around, walk down the street and into the milk-light of the streetlamps, she hears shouting from inside. And it’s…different. This isn’t a usual argument between her parents; she hears Leilani, crying._

_Opening the front door, she sees her mother and father berating her younger sister over a bad grade. They sound violent, and Leilani looks terrified. With her liquid confidence, she walks over to her sister and stands in front of her, using her own, tiny body to block the shouts._

_Deflect, deflect, deflect. That’s all she can think to do. She needs to do something so grand that her parents will forget about a silly C grade on a maths test; something that will turn their cruel attention towards her. And she only has one secret that will do the job._

_“Mother, father,” she says, squeezing Leilani’s hand behind her and then quickly letting go, “I’m gay.”_

* * *

 

She gives up on eating the toast as a pointless endeavour; her stomach is too light, airy, and anxious to really process any food. Leaving her plate at the table without washing it like she would normally do, she walks to her bedroom and begins to get dressed; wearing something as plain as possible. She doesn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to herself – she’s not one of those obsessive Danganronpa fans who style their hair like typical protagonists. Instead, she just wants to get through this horror, since she’s no stranger to walking through hell. Yes, she’s Dante.

Although she knows that she’ll be back in her apartment at the end of the day, she feels as if she should say goodbye to each room, perhaps blessing it in the absence of her presence. Today marks a significant change in her life, and she can’t pretend like it’s any less important than it is.

The walk to the Danganronpa interview building is short, and Angie feels the lightness of each of her steps. She lives, now, in an entirely different city to her parents, but there’s still a painful compulsion to look over her shoulder at every moment, to make sure that nobody is going to come behind her and hurt her…

* * *

 

_Her parents have never hit her. But the fire in her father’s eyes, now…_

_She pushes Leilani with her hand, softly, but with meaning – her sister gets the hint and runs up the stairs. Thankfully, neither her father nor mother follow her. Instead, her mother clings onto the cross around her neck and her father steps forward._

_And he hits her._

_Right across the face, on her cheek; she feels the sting reverberating through her whole body. With tears springing into her eyes, she looks up at them, knowing that this is okay, as long as Leilani is alright._

_“You’re fucking…you…”_

_“I’m sorry, father,” she replies, “I know it’s against what you believe. But don’t you think that God is loving, regardless of who we are?”_

_“God doesn’t love the sinners!”_

_“I thought…I mean…the Bible says…”_

_“God does not love…your kind!”_

_“Father…I…”_

_“I’m going to be kind. I’ll give you a choice. You can either stay here, and keep this quiet from Leilani, and you must get a boyfriend within a week. Or, you can go.”_

_“Go where?”_

_“I don’t fucking care.”_

* * *

 

In the queue, Angie tries to keep to herself. She sees some of the applicants having animated conversations, but she can’t bring herself to be interested in the same way that they all obviously are; Danganronpa isn’t her life – to be honest, she only watched the last season to brush up on her knowledge, so she wouldn’t seem like an idiot in the interview, but other than that, she only knows what she’s seen from watching it with Leilani.

Leilani. Right now, her name hurts to remember.

* * *

 

_She left. She fucking left Leilani alone, knowing that getting a boyfriend was an impossible task. With nowhere to go, she’d hopped between abandoned houses for a while, just trying to stay afloat, until she’d got a job and managed to save up enough for her little apartment._

_The most important thing was paying her phone bill. With that, she could still talk to her sister. It was a long time before she even came out to her, but Leilani was so accepting, telling her that she doesn’t believe in the warped God of her parents – her God, and Angie’s god, simultaneously, are accepting and loving._

_Until…_

**_< From Leilani: 10:12> _ ** _I can’t believe you. Warping Leilani like this._

**_< To Leilani: 10:12> _ ** _Leilani?_

**_< From Leilani: 10:13> _ ** _No, this is her mother._

**_< To Leilani: 10:13> _ ** _Mum?_

**_< From Leilani: 10:13> _ ** _You’re no daughter of mine._

**_< To Leilani: 10:14> _ ** _Mum, please, I’m begging you. Let me talk to Leilani._

**_< From Leilani: 10:14> _ ** _YOUR MESSAGE COULD NOT BE DELIEVERED. THIS NUMBER IS EITHER DISCONNECTED, OR HAS BLOCKED YOU FROM CONTACT. PLEASE CALL OUR NETWORK IF YOU BELIEVE THIS IS IN ERROR._

_She called the network, many, many times. But each time, nothing happened. She had been cut off from her lifeline._

* * *

 

She gets inside the Danganronpa building and sighs, heavy and weighted. There’s no reason to interact with anyone, but she desperately wants to build her persona as positive and happy – the way she wants Leilani to see her on television.

Approaching a boy with long hair, she seems to surprise him when she talks.

“Hey,” she says, “wanna talk?”

“Why?”

“To be honest, I’m kinda nervous. I’m Angie, by the way.”

“Korekiyo. Why are you applying then?”

“For my sister,” Angie says, Leilani’s face piercing her mind.

“Oh,” he replies, “how so?”

“I haven’t seen her in years. Not since my parents disowned me. But I know she likes Danganronpa, so I’m hoping I can win and then we can reconnect. Or…I might die. But at least she’ll see me, even if it is on a screen. It’s a risk I have to take.”

“That’s…admirable,” he says, “I think I probably respect you a lot more than most of the people here. They all just want fame and glory and murder. Can’t really blame them though, not when…”

“Not when what?”

“Oh, nothing.”

“Come on, you can trust me. I’ve got no reason to tell anyone.”

“I suppose you’re right. But I pride myself on being quite reserved.”

“Think of it this way,” Angie says, “we’re both gonna forget this conversation even happened when we’re in the game. So whatever you say now, I won’t remember.”

“Oh. You’re not going to give in, are you?”

“Nope!”

“Fine. My sister…she was in Danganronpa 51. She survived, but she’s…sick. And we need money. So I’m applying so that she can stay alive.”

“Oh, wait…are you Korekiyo Shinguji?”

“Yes, I am.”

“So your sister was Miyadera? You look alike. I liked her! She was the Ultimate Children’s Book Writer, right?” Angie pauses, remembering watching the show with her own sister. Miyadera seemed…nice. She almost trusts Korekiyo, given that he, also, is doing this for his sister.

“She...was, yes.”

“I’m sorry to hear about her. I’d probably do the same as you if…well, I don’t even wanna think about it.”

“Yes,” he says, “it’s quite…troubling.”

“Tell you what, if we both get accepted, we’ll be friends in the game! I can just feel it!”

“Friends…” Korekiyo says, “I’ve never really had one before. Except Miyadera. I think it would be quite nice.”

“Well, we’re friends now. But we can be even better friends in the game. It’ll be nice to have someone to rely on!”

“Yes…it will be nice. Good luck, Angie.”

“You too, Korekiyo!”

She skips away, trying to maintain her positive front until she’s most likely out of his sight.

* * *

 

A girl with blue hair and glasses walks up to her. Angie feels like there’s something…off…about her, but she pushes that aside. She has to be positive, after all.

“Hi,” the girl says, “I’m Mariko Idabashi.”

“Oh,” Angie replies, thinking about what to say, “I’m Angie Yonaga, soon to be Ultimate Artist!”

Ultimate Artist? Where did that come from? But then again, she remembers her sister’s drawings; she has one back in her apartment, a crayon-coloured picture of her and Leilani smiling. Yes, Ultimate Artist is good.

“That’s…presumptuous.”

“Yeah, but that’s what I’ve learned in my life so far. My mum always told me that I’d get nowhere if I didn’t fight for it. But then again…never mind.”

“No, go on. It’s not like we’ll ever meet again. If we do, we’ll be different people, right?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Angie says, thinking about whether she can trust this girl – well, there’s no harm in it, since their memories will most likely be erased “well, I don’t speak to my mum any more. Or my dad. I spoke to my little sister for a bit but…mum stopped that when she found out.”

“Oh – why?”

“They’re like…super religious. And, y’know, I’m gay, so…”

“Yeah. I get that. So you’re applying because…?”

“Truthfully, I don’t really care about life. But I know my little sister likes the show and – it might be the only way I can contact her. She could see me again. And if I survive…she might persuade my parents to let her see me, y’know, if I’m rich and famous and all that.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

 

Angie hears her name being called, and she skips away from Mariko, maintaining her positive façade until the interview door shuts behind her. Once she’s inside, she exhales a sigh that’s been building in her lungs for nineteen years.

“Hello, Angie,” the interviewer says, dressed from head to toe as Junko Enoshima.

“Hi,” Angie replies, nervously sitting down.

“You seem anxious. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Y-Yes please.”

The interviewer gives her a glass of ice-cold water, and Angie takes a sip. As the coolness drips down her throat, she finds that all the choked-up sobs become disturbed, and her eyes almost well with tears.

“Are you okay, Angie?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out, “I’m fine. I can’t mess up this interview.”

“Don’t worry about that,” the interviewer says, “showing emotion just tells us that you’ve got a reason to be here.”

She takes a box of tissues from her desk drawer and passes them to Angie. Angie takes one, and wipes her eyes, finding that the tears truly won’t stop coming.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t worry about it,” the interviewer replies, reaching up to her head and taking off her wig, “look, I’m gonna break protocol here. I’m taking off this goddamn Junko costume and we’re gonna level with each other, okay? My name is Mao Satou.”

“I-I’m Angie…Yonaga.”

“Alright. So now we know each other.”

“S-Still,” Angie chokes out, “you don’t really c-care about me.”

“Look, I know it’s my job to dress as Junko and get information out of applicants. But I’ve read your file, and you didn’t mention any overenthusiastic interest in Danganronpa. So I get it, you’ve got a reason to apply that’s different to most people here. That’s alright.”

“I-I just…my sister…she loves this show. And my parents…they…kinda forced me to leave when they found out I was…”

“Gay?”

“How do you know?”

“Let’s just say…I get it.”

“What?”

“Completely off the record,” Mao says, “me too. A couple of people here know, but…Danganronpa is still pretty homophobic. They might make you into a stereotype.”

“I don’t care what they do to me. As long as Leilani knows who I am, then…”

“Your sister is Leilani, yes? So you want to contact her through Danganronpa?”

“Y-Yeah. It’s her favourite show, and…it’s the only way I can get her to think of me.”

“I’m guessing your parents weren’t too cool with you coming out.”

“N-No. They stopped Leilani from t-talking to me.”

“That sucks,” Mao reaches across the desk and holds Angie’s shaking hand, “and I know it’s hard. I’m still contractually obliged by Danganronpa to test you in some respects, but I’m gonna work things out for you, okay? I’ll make sure you get onto the show.”

“Y-You will?”

“I’ll try. Of course, I have to ask you some hard questions – we’re forced to provoke the applicants into confessing their true reasons for applying. But just trust me, okay? I won’t write down anything that hurts your application.”

“O-Okay.”

“So…Angie…would you still apply if Team Danganronpa changed your whole appearance and personality? If your sister wouldn’t recognise you?”

“Leilani…she would recognise me anywhere. In every lifetime…she’s my sister, and I love her.”

“I understand,” Mao says, “and that’s noted down. Angie, I’ll make sure you have the best chance you can.”

“T-Thank you.”

“Alright. I think we’re done here. Angie, if you could exit through the door behind me.”

Angie does so. Before she can turn the knob, she feels Mao grasp her hand, and she turns to face her.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mao asks.

“W-What?”

“Once you’ve left this room, your application can’t be retracted.”

“I have to.”

“I want to help you, Angie. We can get you back in contact with your sister, together.”

“I-I can’t.”

“Angie…you realise you’re likely to die in Danganronpa?”

“I…I know. But I can’t…I have to try…”

“There are other ways!”

“You don’t know my parents,” Angie says, sadly.

“You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I…have to,” Angie exits the door.

* * *

 

She’s alright. She has to be alright. On the walk home, she tells herself that she’s doing the right thing; this will help Leilani. All she can think about is her sister watching Danganronpa, seeing her face again – and if she wins, she’ll be rich. Her parents, materialistic as they are, may even accept her back if she gives them money. The only thing she has to do is survive.

Back in her apartment, she pulls a box out from underneath her bed. It’s her memory box, filled with things that used to make her happy. When she runs her hands over Leilani’s drawings, she sighs.

This is the right thing.

This is the right thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my friend [Space](http://www.twitter.com/gaysinthevoid) for coming up with the name Leilani for Angie's sister! She put so much research into it, and I'm so happy!
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked this chapter!


	9. Gonta Gokuhara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gonta has lived his whole life for his parents, their smart little prodigy. But that's not who he is. He's more, he swears.

Gonta drags himself out of bed way before dawn. He has to do his little brother’s homework; he promised he would last night, but having not slept for over forty-eight hours, he ended up crashing onto his bed and falling asleep. As if his body knows that he’s let himself down – no, let his whole family down – he wakes earlier than usual. At least he has time, now, to push through the groggy gridlock in his mind and work on some menial maths questions that mean nothing to him.

Nothing means anything to him anymore. His life, in a word, is dull. Each day echoes the remnants of the last, eating breakfast, working for his siblings, listening to his parents’ rambling about how he has to apply for further study this year – it’s as if they haven’t got the hint, two years after finishing his studies, that he has absolutely no interest in continuing with things as pathetic and useless as maths and science.

His parents don’t value him as a human being; every morning, they kiss and polish the line of trophies in the dining room, as if they’re trying to gently bring them to life. Sometimes, they even send him in there with a cloth to bring the shine back into his old achievements; they can’t see the sadness and boredom on his face when it’s reflected back at him in gold, but to him it becomes all the more obvious.

The homework takes him no time at all, but then he’s trapped once more in the imagination of what he could be doing with his life. Of course, he _could_ follow his parents’ wishes and apply for further education, but being effortlessly smart just means that he would be voluntarily seeping himself in boredom were he to spend his life studying. No, he wants more than that. His only comfort is nature, and the little moments before his parents wake up in which he can sit in the dewy grass and wonder about how he’s ever going to be in harmony with the planet.

_Harmony._ It’s a strange word, he thinks, as he thuds his body down onto the greenery of his back garden. Can anything truly exist in tandem with something else? Were humans not built as predators, the ability to kill and gut, bloody raw meat staining the unwashed chins of the homo sapiens, homo ergaster, those primal beings who had the right idea? Before universities were built and intelligence became meaningless currency, there was only the urge to fight your way to the top. Gonta sympathises.

And there’s another thing that he’s proud of. His fast reflexes. See, he knows that studies have proven that flies and other pests see time in almost slow-motion - in the time that it takes for a person to raise their hand to swat such a creature, it will have seen it coming, analysed the possibilities, and flown away before the petty human can even lament upon being bested by something so low in the food chain. But not Gonta. His keen eyesight and quick hands have been honed, over the years, into instruments for mindless killing, and he crushes the fly on his leg with ease. Fascinating. The broken body left behind traces a line of blood and guts along his flesh, capturing his eye for only a moment before he wipes everything away.

And of course, it’s not like he particularly likes killing insects, but not for the reason that most people would expect. There’s no remorse there, it’s just _boring._ He needs a challenge; needs to see a person squirming underneath his perfectly uncalloused hands, which is why he has to do this, today, or never.

* * *

 

Still, the applications for Danganronpa aren’t for another few hours, and if he holes himself up in his room, he might be left alone by his family. And he has his favourite series on DVD, bought online and shipped discreetly so his parents didn’t find out that he had, god forbid, _hobbies._ He doubts they’d approve, anyway. With them, it’s all _future_ and _reputation_ and _we can’t have our little future world-maker cracking under pressure or falling behind!_ They just don’t get it. He doesn’t want to create worlds, he wants to fall into the vortex of the world created by Danganronpa and become someone else, someone who embraces their lust for _feeling_ and _murder_ and lets it consume them.

Someone like, he supposes, Izuru Kamukura.

See, he’s never believed the lies peddled by the show, before it became _all about_ lies. The narrative of the first few series enamoured him because of the truth that lay beneath, the damning exposé of the despair of the world. And Izuru? He was the best of humanity, embodied. Of course, Gonta relates to him, with the idea of a boredom so deep and dulling that it subdues the soul - that resonates with him right at his core, but he refuses to believe that that’s all Izuru is. He was once Hajime Hinata, and Gonta _gets_ that; he, too, was once someone who could feel - only, it wasn’t Hope’s Peak that took that from him, it was his parents. Every single day in monotony doesn’t just hold the shackles of boredom, it holds the tantalising, bitter nostalgia of the fact that he could have been someone meaningful.

That’s why he wants to kill. Watching Izuru’s unchanging face at the Student Council Killing Game…that’s who he is, deep down.

The thoughts overcome him. Someone writhing underneath his hands, struggling for breath that he’s willing to steal…when he kills, it will be visceral. He won’t use instruments like knives or rope; all he needs are these hands, destined for greatness, steeped in blood. He thinks of the homework he did for his sister, all those Shakespeare quotes. Just one that matters:

_“I am in blood / Stepped in so far that should I wade no more / Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”_

And now, it’s the dawn of a new age. Checking his watch, he’s still got a few hours to go before his interview, but now there’s something to do. A rage inside him that needs to burn longer; a purpose that he’s lusted for for so many years; a point to prove to the whole damn universe. 

His parents, lazy and useless, are still in bed. They don’t notice him sneaking into the dining room. They don’t notice him taking each trophy down from the shelf. They don’t notice him.

_They don’t notice him._

Maybe that’s the problem. At least he’s self-aware.

With his bag full of gold that feels stolen, despite his name being plastered all over the cruel, and most likely at least half-fake, metal, he sneaks out of his house via the shed. On his way, he picks up a sledgehammer. Perfect.

Piling the trophies into the front garden, he makes them neat, beautiful. They shine in the morning sunlight and it reflects back into his eyes, temporarily blinding him, but he squints away the pain and draws the sledgehammer above his head.

And down.

Down.

Down.

The smashing, blundering mess of everything that ever mattered somehow reflects the sun even more now. That’s who he imagines he is - the sun, the son, everything prodigal and beautiful, only, never coming home again. His name burns on the remnants of gold - Gonta Hisakawa - and he hates it. His name does not belong to him. And he remembers…

_Being a child, when the mountains glistened silver and the skies opened to beat heat down onto every being. When he was smart, but there was not the pressure of adulthood weighing on his form; he still had time, even just a little, to live a childhood that he felt was slipping from him every second. And he had friends…well, friend, singular. Reo Gokuhara._

_He was never the smartest, but damn, he was the kindest. He never once asked Gonta for help with his schoolwork, despite the fact that he was failing his classes, and Gonta could have easily brought his grades up._

_“There’s more to life than being measured by your mind,” he had said._

_In the moment, Gonta had dismissed it as childish reasoning for failing school._

* * *

 

“Gonta!”

His head jerks up towards the window of his parents’ bedroom. His mother, all powder and hair rollers and faux-concern, stares out of the open glass pane; not at him, but at the mangled mess on the grass.

“What are you doing?”

He sighs. How to explain this? Still, it’s not as though he can announce to the whole street that he’s applying for Danganronpa, that would ruin his…

_Reputation._

Before he can even make the choice to discredit everything his parents think he’s worked for, his mother appears in the front doorway, wrapped in a dressing gown, looking more fragile than ever as she stares meekly at the wreck on the grass. 

“Gonta, darling,” she coos, “why?”

“This isn’t me!”

“Yes it is! You worked so hard for these trophies!”

“But I didn’t want to! It was you! _You_ made me!”

“Because you can’t make your own decisions! Come back inside.”

“No!”

“Just _come inside._ We’ll say there was an accident, something to do with the house. We’ll contact your old school and all those competitions and get replacement trophies.”

“I don’t want replacements!”

“Come on, Gonta, don’t be silly. You know that your mother knows best, and I only want the best for you. Get inside this _instant!”_

“No!”

“Gonta! Do what I say!”

“No, you don’t own me!”

“Yes I do! I’m your mother, and as long as you live under my roof, you’ll obey me. Now get inside! Look at the damage you’ve done!”

“Look at the damage _you’ve_ done, _mother._ Look at me! I’m fucked up. Bored of life and of you! All you care about is boasting about me to your friends. I’m never going to be what you want!”

“It’s not about what I want! It’s about securing you a future!”

“But it’s the future you want for me! And I don’t want it, mother! I don’t want it!”

“Yes you do! You’re just being silly! Trust me, I only want the best for you.”

“And what is the best? Success? Money? Achievements? What about happiness, mother? Do I not get that?”

“You’ll get long-term happiness if you just follow my orders! None of this…short-term adrenaline that you’re getting from acting… _ridiculous!”_

“How are you supposed to know what makes me happy? You only care about me when you can see my name on a trophy. I’m not an achievement, I’m your son!”

“You have to make me proud!”

“Don’t I do that anyway? Just by being your son?”

His mother still stands in the doorway, one hand on the beam, the other holding the tie of her dressing gown like it’s a noose. 

“Just come inside and stop being an idiot,” she hisses, but her voice is sad.

“No. You don’t know what’s best for me.”

He doesn’t want to prolong this goodbye for any longer. Of course, he’ll see her after his interview, but today marks a change in his life; a _choice,_ and one that hasn’t been made for him by external sources. Still, as much as he tries to block out his thoughts, it’s not his mother he thinks of.

It’s Reo.

* * *

 

_“It’ll be fine,” Gonta says, “just go. I can handle a night with my parents.”_

_“Look, I’m not going if you’re gonna be on your own and sad this whole time. You can just stay at mine overnight, we have a free house and we can get pizza and play video games.”_

_“Your parents have had this trip booked for months.”_

_“And they’ll still enjoy it without me.”_

_“No. I know they’d be fine with it…they’re more of a mum and dad to me than my own parents, but I’m not dragging you down. Just go, it’s fine.”_

_“You sure, Gonta?”_

_“Of course. Don’t put your life on hold for me. But you gotta buy me a shitty keyring or something, yeah?”_

_“Always!”_

_It had only been an overnight trip. Staying in the next town over, going to the theatre; Reo’s parents had promised him that for passing his exams; they knew how hard he’d studied._

_Damn it. Just an overnight trip._

* * *

 

Running down the street, Gonta forgets his house, his parents, everything. Well, almost everything. Reo keeps flitting through his mind.

Panting, he turns each corner with purpose. He just has to _get there,_ get to his interview, then his mind can be erased of all this pain and he can live as the true person he should be - still bored, perhaps, but murderous and uncaring. Reputations don’t matter when you’re being broadcast to the world. How wonderful it would be.

Wonderful, yes. To give everything up, surrender himself to Danganronpa. Whether the audience loves him or hates him, it won’t be his fault. There’ll be no expectations of Gonta Hisakawa, only of the boy they make him out to be. His fate will be out of his hands. The beauty of powerlessness.

Is that how Reo felt?

_He assumed that Reo hadn’t called him for a multitude of reasons. Perhaps he was too busy enjoying himself? Maybe his own parents had cut off the phone to stop him from talking to friends instead of studying? But it had been a whole day since Reo was supposed to come back, and yet…nothing._

_His final exam was today. Naturally, his parents made him breakfast and sent him off with a smile. But Reo was supposed to be there. They’d promised to walk together, send each other off with a ‘good luck’ and a smile…but he wasn’t._

_Gonta passed with 100%._

* * *

 

The interview building looms in his sight. He’s so close now; so close.

In the queue, he keeps to himself. Making friends only hurts, he knows that too well; and besides, these people beside him, all with their fake protagonist hair and menacing smiles…they don’t know him. They just want to kill him. And he won’t let them.

_After the exam, he came home to his mother’s somber face. Strange, considering how much she usually smiled after he took an exam. But she told him to sit down at the kitchen table._

_“I have something to tell you,” she had said._

_“What?”_

_“It’s Reo.”_

_“What about him? Mum…what about him?”_

_“He’s…dead, Gonta.”_

_“What? How? When?”_

_“A few days ago. A car accident?”_

_“A-A…what?”_

_“When he was travelling out of town with his parents. They…they died too.”_

_“That was days ago, mother! Why didn’t you tell me? I was waiting for him! I was…w-waiting for him.”_

_“It would have disrupted your revision. You needed to pass this exam.”_

_“W-What? You thought…my best friend…my exam…how could you?”_

_“I couldn’t bring him back to life, Gonta. This isn’t my fault. He’d be dead either way. This way, you can make him proud by getting good grades.”_

_“He wouldn’t have cared about that! He was…better than that!”_

_“Stop shouting.”_

_“I’m angry!”_

_“There’s no reason to be.”_

_“My best friend is dead!”_

_“I didn’t kill him; there’s no reason to lash out at me.”_

_“You hid it from me!”_

_“For your own good, Gonta. Everything I do is for your own good.”_

* * *

 

He gets inside the interview building, keeping to himself as usual. Interacting with these…boring people…just makes him want to be sick; he has no interest in any of them, he just wants to get into his interview. But things never truly go his way.

A boy falls into him, and out of instinct, Gonta reaches out a strong hand and catches him.

“Woah there,” he says, “you good?”

“Y-Yes,” the boy says, “sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not like you tried to murder me. Yet,” Gonta lets out an almost crude laugh.

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Gonta,” he says, omitting his last name, “you?”

“Korekiyo. May I ask why you’re applying?”

“That’s a bit of a heavy question,” _and I don’t know why you’re asking,_ Gonta thinks, “but I suppose I’ve just got a point to prove to someone.”

“That’s vague.”

“I’m saving it all for the interview.”

“Ah, right. Clever thinking.”

“Thanks. I hope I get accepted. I’m kind of putting all my hope on this.”

“Me too,” Korekiyo says.

“Any idea what you’d want your talent to be?”

“That doesn’t really matter to me,” Korekiyo says, his tone wistful, “as long as I’m in the game, I’ll have fulfilled my purpose. What about you?”

“Something unusual,” Gonta says, “not maths-y or science-y. I’m trying to break away from all of that, you know? I’d like to be, oh I don’t know, the Ultimate Florist or something. Something that’s more personal than intelligent.”

“That’s strange. Most people want to be the other way around.”

_I’m not most people._

“I know,” Gonta says, “I’m just sick of being intelligent, when I can be so much more. I’m actually like, really passionate about other things, like nature, but nobody lets me talk about that because they’re all obsessed with my grades and my _promising future_ or something like that.”

“I can imagine that must be frustrating.”

“It is. Anyway, I should go. I need to prepare myself for the interview.”

“Me too. Good luck, Gonta.”

“You too.”

Stunned by his interaction with Korekiyo, Gonta doesn’t even realise that he’s doing exactly what Korekiyo did, walking into someone. He almost trips over a small man, with malice and vengeance in his eyes, despite his small size.

“My name is Ryoma,” the man says, “and yes, I’m aware of how small I am. I’m applying to Danganronpa and I won’t tell you why. That should be all your questions answered, yeah?”

“I didn’t want to ask any questions,” Gonta says, defensively.

“Whatever. They all do.”

_“They?_ I’m not one of them.”

“Sure you ain’t. You’re all the same round here.”

“Then surely you’re one of them too?”

“Nah, I’m different. I’m not in this for fame or glory.”

“Whatever, then,” Gonta says, “you’re boring.”

“Ha. I ain’t heard that one before, that’s new.”

Without entertaining Ryoma, Gonta walks away. It’s about time, as well, because he hears his name being called from one of the interview rooms lining the back wall, and he walks towards his door, already having accepted his fate.

* * *

 

Before the interviewer can say anything, he sits in the chair, spreading his legs and putting his elbows on the desk, trying to assert dominance despite having the lower hand. 

“You’ve got nothing to prove here,” the interviewer says. She’s dressed as Junko, and Gonta thinks that it’s crude at best. Still, though, she’s seen through his masculinity act, so he has to give her some credit for her intelligence. 

“So, what if I have?”

“Then let it go. It won’t help or hinder your interview. Now…your name is Gonta Hisakawa, yes?”

“No…actually…it’s Gonta…Gokuhara.”

“Really? Your application says -”

“Fuck what it says. I get to choose, here. It’s Gonta Gokuhara.”

“Right,” the interviewer says, making a note on her clipboard, “Gonta Gokuhara it is, then. And why are you applying?”

“Because,” he says, trying to make his voice forceful, “I have a point to prove.”

“To who?”

“To my family. That I’m not just smart, not just a tool for them to be fake-proud of. I’m me. I’m Gonta. And I fucking have interests! Not just the shit I’m good at, but other stuff, too.”

“Oh. Like what?”

“Nature. I love nature. All those old Romantic poets, I’ve studied them all, of course. But I don’t care about their poetry. _Bright Star_ my ass. I wanna know about Percy Shelley blowing shit up, Lord Byron fucking everyone, John Keats…well, Keats can go fuck himself, I guess.”

“Wow. You certainly have strong opinions.”

“Of course I do! I’m more than my damn grades!”

“We know. That’s why you’re here, right?”

“Of course!”

“So…what would you want your talent to be?”

“Something non-academic. I don’t care what. I’m not asking you to remove my intelligence, because I do rely on it, and I could use it…to _murder.”_

“Everyone comes in here wanting to murder. Nobody wants to be a victim, Gonta.”

“I’ve been a damn victim all my life. Just give me a chance to feel something!”

“Hey, now, don’t get angry. I never said what we would or wouldn’t do to you. Honestly…I have no control over that. I just take notes and pass them onto the higher ups.”

“So you’re just a pawn, then?”

“If you want to put it that way, yes.”

“I…I get that.”

“Is that everything, Gonta?”

“No! That’s not everything! I want to murder and kill and be free of this boredom!”

“See, you’ve said that before. I’m beginning to wonder if that’s the only personality you’ve got.”

“Fuck you. And besides, you made Izuru Kamukura that way, and he was - he is - a hit. So don’t fucking tell me that you can’t make use of me. People have been making use of me my whole life!”

His emotions, rising strong, build up in his chest, and he slams his fists onto the table and stands up.

“Do what you want,” he says, “but I’m done. Enjoy your fake life in your shitty Junko cosplay. You’re nobody. I bet you flunked out of high school and ended here. Your red lipstick fools nobody.”

The interviewer remains silent as Gonta storms out through the door behind her.

* * *

 

Each street that he storms down blurs into the next. Everything is the same. The whole damn world is nothing but a chewed-up and spat-out ball of _sameness,_ useless and worthless. It’s better to die as a fake Danganronpa creation than it is to live as for somebody else.

He makes sure to slam the front door when he enters his house.

“Gonta,” his mother calls, walking down the hallway and cupping his face in her hands. He can smell the gin on her breath; this isn’t unusual.

“What?”

“Where did you go, sweetheart?”

“I went for a walk.”

“You were gone hours. Anyway, come and sit with me,” she practically drags him to the living room, where he sees her half-empty glass of gin and tonic on the table beside her. She pulls him half onto her lap.

“What do you want, mother?”

“Don’t be so questioning! Your mummy wants a hug!”

Reluctantly, he leans into her. _Soon, you’ll be able to leave the oppressive smell of powder and gin-breath behind._

“Alright, mother. What is it?”

“I spoke to your old school. Since you were such an excellent student, they’re sending replacement trophies. I couldn’t get in contact with some of the competitions that you won, but we have at least ten trophies. And I spent a lot of money on getting trophies made for you, so you better not pull any of that shit again.”

Gonta rips himself away from his mother’s arms, standing in front of her like a pillar of faux-strength, whilst she trembles into her gin.

“I’m not yours,” he says, and storms up to his room.

He’d rather belong to nobody.

Pulling the photo of Reo of himself from his dresser, he angrily folds it in half so that only his former best friend is showing; tucking it into his mirror, he can’t bear to see himself.

Soon enough, he’ll be someone else, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry that this is late! I had an exam on June 19th, and I went to France recently, and I've been relaxing and working on other stuff, and things just got away from me. But I'm back, and I want to thank you all for waiting for this chapter! I hope you like it! Please leave a comment if you did!


	10. Kokichi Ouma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kokichi fights for DICE, fights for anything. He's born to be an anarchist, because at least he won't be boring.

Forty-five hours. That means there’s three left, and Kokichi is damned if he’ll be called a quitter in front of the people that look up to him. By the twenty-four hour mark, he had started to yawn with every other minute that passed, and now he’s getting to the stage where his heart seems to be beating faster than it should; he’s shaking and his skin is sickly and pale in the light of the television screen. Just another three hours - another three episodes - and he’ll be able to sleep.

They all told him that he didn’t have to do this. That he’s under no obligation, as the leader of DICE, to partake in a display of solidarity in completing the initiation challenges alongside every new member. But they’re all wrong - he’s not doing this to be kind, or to prove a point, he’s doing it to stay on top. Because the newest prospective member of DICE passed out at the thirty-six hour mark, and the challenge has been over since then, but Kokichi Ouma does not give up. 

If someone can’t pass a task so simple, then they don’t deserve to be in his organisation.

_DICE - Danganronpa Is Criminal Endangerment._ An underground organisation of jilted and jaded people, coasting off the end of their teenage years and the beginning of their early twenties, left disillusioned by the state of the world. Some of them fell behind the Danganronpa hype years ago, and found themselves irreparably excluded by their peers; some managed to stay away from the brainwashed hordes of society and they saw Danganronpa for what it really was. A few of them had even lost siblings, cousins, friends to the show. But it’s an inalienable rule of DICE that this doesn’t get talked about unless necessary.

This initiation challenge had been easy. The applicant merely had to stay awake for forty-eight hours doing nothing but watching the most brutal trials and executions from previous series of Danganronpa, after which they would be asked to recall the names of everybody they just saw die on screen; if they successfully remembered the names of the exact people they were supposed to be fighting for, then they’d be allowed access into DICE. But they failed. They never would have lasted anyway.

Kokichi is is so tired, he can’t even remember their name.

He’s the only one who’s had more than one initiation and, still, he’s never had an individual challenge to prove his worth. There’s his second-in-command, Katsumi, who had the worst initiation of all. Surely he should have felt cruel for putting him through all that, but back then, when it was just those two against Danganronpa, Kokichi couldn’t risk working with anyone who wasn’t completely loyal. But…he really did put his childhood best friend through that. He carries the guilt every day.

* * *

 

_Their first public display against Danganronpa; the words running over in Kokichi’s mind…”I can’t tell you my plan, but it’s going to work”. Katsumi trusts him wholeheartedly, and Kokichi knows, fuck, he knows, that he’s going to betray that really soon. He has to hide the banners he’s making; blood red banners spitting out:_ **_IF YOU CAN’T WATCH IT IN REAL LIFE, YOU CAN’T WATCH IT ON TELEVISION. BOYCOTT DANGANRONPA._ **

_He spent the night before picking the lock of the entry to a shop that’s only recently closed down. Placed right in the middle of the high street, the building is empty, but all they really need is the large glass pane that used to house mannequins. Instead, there’s just a chair in the middle; everyone can see them but nobody can stop them._

_The first time Katsumi looks scared is when Kokichi won’t meet his gaze as he buckles him into the chair. Katsumi can’t move, but he’s still got his signature smile on his face. Kokichi puts the banner in the window, facing outwards so that his best friend still can’t see the words written on it._

_Of course, a crowd gathers. Kokichi had likely half-hoped that nobody would be curious enough to stay and witness this, and he’d have an excuse to call it off, but no. This is the right thing. This has to be the right thing to do._

_He presses a button that he’s installed into the wall, and a television lowers from the ceiling. He taught himself electronics years ago, and pulled an all-nighter to make sure that the intricacies of this display didn’t fail. The television displays words he can’t bear to read; instead, he slinks into the shadows and lets the action - the protest, because protests have purpose - begin._

**_GAME OVER. KATSUMI HAS BEEN FOUND GUILTY. TIME FOR THE PUNISHMENT!_ **

_Katsumi strains to read the words above him. Kokichi knows that even if he can’t make them out, he’ll recognise the font and design instantly. Yes. What a perfect way to protest Danganronpa, to saturate the public with the same despair they beg for? When it hits close to home, when they can’t change the channel if it gets too gory, then they’ll see exactly what Danganronpa truly is._

_Katsumi starts to struggle against the restraints. This is exactly the reaction Kokichi wanted, why he didn’t tell Katsumi about the plan - because no matter how good an actor is, they simply cannot replicate the full truth. The sheer fear in his eyes…that’s why this is necessary. And yet, it breaks his heart._

_He begins to scream, piercing Kokichi’s ears with heartbreak, when the knives begin to come out of the walls, propelled by slingshots; everything has been planned so meticulously - this will not kill him. Of course, the blades graze against his cheeks, his arms, his stomach. Minor flesh wounds, but Kokichi feels each one as if it’s him in that chair._

_“Kokichi, please,” Katsumi sobs, “I’ve had enough! I don’t want to die!”_

_He doesn’t want to die. He doesn’t want to die. Does this make Kokichi a murderer? A political pawn?_

_The knives keep coming._

_And then the buzzsaws. Just two, extending out from the walls either side of Katsumi’s neck, creeping closer to him, their sounds deafening Kokichi; he can only imagine how loud it sounds to Katsumi, blinded in terror, getting closer and closer to his eardrums. Kokichi wishes that they would just pop and his best friend could sit in silence and not hear his own execution._

_He’s cutting everything fine. One wrong move, and Katsumi’s head will be sliced clean off; stop the saws too soon, and the whole thing will lose meaning. This unwilling audience has to see blood to make it real. The knives have done that._

_It’s only when Kasumi stops screaming, only punctuating the sharp sounds of the saws with sobs, when he closes his eyes in acceptance, that Kokichi thinks he’s taken it far enough. He presses a button, and a curtain falls over the window, blocking the view of the audience. The saws stop._

_He runs over to untie Kasumi, helping him out of the restraints and pulling him along, holding him up as they quickly run out of the building and into the car that Kokichi parked outside for a quick getaway._

_“I was never going to kill you.”_

_“I just needed you to think you were going to die so you could show genuine fear.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Please, forgive me.”_

_Katsumi doesn’t speak._

* * *

 

Like always, Kokichi carries the guilt. That was two years ago, and Katsumi hasn’t spoken a single word to anybody since. The only sounds he makes are his screams in his nightmares. Kokichi, at first, had tried to wake him up and calm him down, but Katsumi only screamed more at Kokichi’s touch. Their relationship, now, is one of loyalty and distrust all at once.

He blames Danganronpa. It’s easier than blaming himself.

Forty-eight hours are up. And yet still, he won’t sleep. There’s something more important that he has to do today, something that will go down in DICE history. Finally, he’ll prove himself.

Absentmindedly, he runs his hands over the patches sewn onto his denim jacket, all homemade; _‘FUCK DANGANRONPA’ ‘LGBT RIGHTS’ ‘EQUALITY FOR ALL’ ‘THE TRUTH IS THE ONLY WAY’._

It’s a little too big for him, because the years haven’t been kind to him and he often forgets to eat when he’s working long hours on organising protests. But that’s what he’s always thought rebels were - even when he was a kid, admiring the biker gangs and the books about bloody revolution. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he could have even liked Danganronpa because of Mondo, but that’s stupid. He can’t like the organisation he protests against. And it’s not as if love, or happiness, or anything like that matters to him. He’s just a rebel, forged in fire. When Danganronpa falls, and it will fall one day, if he’s still alive, he’ll just find a new cause.

He really only exists if he has something to fight against. Or fight for? He doesn’t know. All he knows is blood on his hands, blood of the establishment mingling with his own cuts, becoming him until he embodies the thing he wants to kill.

Would that mean he then has to die to purge the world of Danganronpa altogether?

Isn’t that what he’s doing by applying?

He can’t exactly wear that jacket to his interview, so he holds it in his hands for the last time, because even if he survives this, he won’t be himself enough to remember it with as much significance as each stitch signifies. As he throws it onto the table, he sees Katsumi walking over; he picks up the jacket and throws it over his shoulders. And then, uttering the first words he’s spoken since he pleaded for his life, he says, “I know.”

* * *

 

Then Kokichi is alone again. Alone to face the cold weather outside, no other jacket feeling comfortable against his cold arms. He walks briskly to the interview, keeping his head down - a familiar gesture, but for different reasons; no longer is he trying to hide his face from the police, instead, he’s just acting like he’s been dethroned. For a man who swore he’d never abdicate, walking towards the guillotine leaves his false pride intact. 

The queue of people are already filing into the building by the time he arrives, but he doesn’t care. They don’t get special consideration for waiting outside in the cold like an overeager herd of sheep, no, he lifts up the rope cordoning off the queue from the street and cuts in line, slipping into the room undetected. 

Inside, he just observes. Who could he exploit for information? He’s been really smart about this whole thing; he even grew out his hair for months and avoided any cameras, then dyed it purple last night. Without his usual round glasses and jacket, he doesn’t look much like Kokichi Ouma the protestor, more like a normal Danganronpa fan trying to fit in. And if he keeps up that persona, then he can get information from the interview and decide whether he has enough damning evidence so far, or if he needs to plunge himself into the game and make the ultimate sacrifice for the sake of DICE. He hopes it won’t come to that.

Although, he’s already lost his throne, so would it matter? He’s been so used to playing Queen, moving around the board at will, that he now feels like his metaphorical royalty is more suited to the helpless, shuffling King, looking around every corner for a potential check. 

There’s somebody who catches his eye, though. A plain looking girl - he thinks she’s wearing a wig, because she keeps adjusting it when she thinks nobody is looking. She’s wandering around, talking to people and then leaving, which seems like suspicious behaviour to him straight away. His eyes have been flitting around, and once he sees her looking at him, he diverts his gaze away, but it’s too late.

“You look…different,” she says. He looks up. 

“You say that as if you’ve seen me before.”

“No, no, I just…you look different to  _the rest of them_.”

“Oh,” he says, “is that good?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m in the same boat as you.”

“Or are you? Most people here are breaking off into little groups, trying to make friends or some bullshit, but you – for the past hour, you’ve been flitting between people, watching them.”

“Have I? I guess I’m just nervous about applying. Maybe I’m subconsciously looking for someone to dissuade me.”

“Or, maybe you’re part of Team Danganronpa, and you’re a mole trying to scout out the new participants.”

“Don’t be absurd,” she says, “look at me. I can’t be any more plain and boring. As much as I’d love it, Team Danganronpa would never employ someone so boring.”

“Whatever. So what’s your name. Quick!” Kokichi tries to catch her off guard. 

“M-Mariko Idabashi.”

“Ah, you stuttered. Could be fake,” he taunts.

“O-Or, I could be nervous, like I already told you.”

“Maybe I’m just too suspicious, but I haven’t exactly got a reason to trust any of the fuckers here.”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

“I don’t know – should I?”

“I don’t see why not,” she says, “it’s not like I have anything to hold over you. It’s only a name; this isn’t  _Death Note.”_

“Ah, you’re  _that kind_  of Danganronpa fan. Should have known, you look like it. But whatever, the way I see it, either you’re a boring anime fangirl and you don’t get accepted, and I never see you again; or, you’re working for Team Danganronpa, and you can put in a good word for me to get chosen. Either way, I win. So sure – I’m Kokichi Ouma.”

“So why are you applying?”

“I’m not telling you,” he says, “I have nothing more to say.”

“R-Right. Bye, then.”

He smiles to himself when she walks away. Truthfully, he wasn’t exactly _sure_ that she was working for Danganronpa before their conversation, but now he’d put a ninety percent probability on it. Which is good, because he’s set up a potential mole if he manages to work out how exactly to exploit her. High on the thrill of information - _god, he was born for this -_ he turns his head and finds a boy staring directly at him. Another Danganronpa employee? Or just an obsessive fan? Either way, he craves information that he can use to prove himself to DICE. 

He beckons the boy to come forward, and he obliges. 

“You stare at everyone you find cute?” Kokichi asks, flashing a slight smile, mainly to see how this boy will rise to challenges. If all else fails, maybe he could even persuade him to join DICE? He’d be nice to look at, if a little creepy with that unhinged glare.

“What? No…I was just…”

“I’m joking. Fucking hell, didn’t realise you’d be so uptight.”

“I didn’t realise you’d be such an asshole.”

“Well…I am an asshole, but at least I’m interesting. What makes you think Danganronpa will accept you?”

“I’m perfect Ultimate Detective material,” the boy says, “and I’m smart. I’ve figured out every Danganronpa mastermind so far. What about you?”

“There’s no reason I should tell you. I’m Kokichi,” he extends his hand, wanting to establish exactly what kind of dynamic this will be right off the bat. Even though his brain is screaming at him that this boy is just your everyday obsessive Danganronpa fan, he can’t seem to figure him out. It’s like there’s something…else.

“I’m Shuichi. You always so cryptic?”

“Nah, just trying on some new ideas for the show. I figured…if they wanna change my personality, they’ll have to figure it out first,” Kokichi says, the closest thing to the truth he’s said all day. And why say it now? Why ruin his chances for someone so unimportant?

“Smart. I like that.”

“Thanks.”

“So…why are you really applying?” Shuichi asks.

“Oh, uh…I guess I just really love Danganronpa. And the idea of murdering someone, I suppose. But I wouldn’t be like, one of those awful Chapter One murderers. Chapter Five, definitely,” he backtracks with a lie, hoping that Shuichi won’t catch on. It seems to go right over his head. Ah, so he’s one of _those_ fans, probably waiting this whole conversation to talk about himself. The kind of meek, shy person who seems so unassuming until they’re on live television with a knife in their hands, smiling at the wavering fourth wall. 

“O-Oh, you’re…ambitious.”

“You’ve gotta be to get into this game. What about you?”

“What?”

“Why are you applying? Don’t give me any of that Ultimate Detective bullshit, you’ve got a weird look in your eyes. C’mon, I won’t judge.”

“Fine. I just…really love death. Like, my own, anyone else’s, it fascinates me. I just want to…” Shuichi pauses, “I just want to get my hands bloody and raw, get absolutely covered in the thick hotness of taking away someone’s life and then…and then…I want to be found out! I want to experience the utter despair of my own plan being foiled and…I…I want to be executed in the most gruesome way! I’m gonna give the audience a show, I’m gonna –”

“Calm down Junko,” Kokichi says, “you’ll scare the whole room away.”

“R-Right, yeah, sorry about that.”

“It’s cool, though. I get it. I kinda feel the same, except I wouldn’t wanna be caught. Well, no, not that I wouldn’t wanna be caught, I just…I don’t really care. Once I’ve become the blackened, I’ll be fulfilled. Execution or no execution, it doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, I understand,” Shuichi replies, “maybe we could…form an alliance? In the game, I mean.”

“I think that’d be pretty cool. There’s usually a Chapter Three double murder. We’d be pretty good at that,” Kokichi thinks that he doesn’t want Shuichi to become a murderer. He’s got such passion, evidently a smart brain, but he’s wasting it on reality TV and dreams of murder. If only he could join…no. Kokichi can’t get close to people.

“Only one person becomes the blackened though,” Shuichi says, “but I suppose that could work. I mean…I kill someone, get executed, and you get a free pass to just…enjoy.”

“It’s a deal. If we remember.”

“Yeah…if we remember.”

“Anyway, I should…” he says, a little awkwardly. His name hasn’t been called for the interview, but staying in this conversation gives him chance to fuck up and reveal himself, because something about Shuichi makes him feel like there’s acid corroding the walls he’s so intricately built. And, as if by fate, his name does end up being called soon enough.

* * *

 

He enters the interview room to see a woman, dressed as Junko, standing up and holding the door open. She locks it behind him, which makes him a little nervous, but he suspects that she’s just doing it so no obsessive fans barge in and beg for a second chance at the interview they messed up. It seems like she’s trying to reassure him when she smiles at him and motions for him to take a seat.

“Welcome,” she says, “Touma Okita…?”

He doesn’t let his tiny moment of confusion flash across his face; within the second, he remembers that he put a fake name on his form.

“Yep! That’s me!”

“Wow, you’re energetic,” the interviewer says.

“I’m just, like, _so excited_ to be here! I can’t believe I’m in an actual Danganronpa interview, oh my god! What’s it like to work for _the_ Danganronpa, the one and only? Wait…oh my god…could _I_ get a job here if I survive the series?”

“Steady on there, Touma! I can’t talk to you properly until we’ve had you sign some forms, okay? Just the regular non-disclosure stuff.”

Shit. He didn’t know he’d have to sign contracts this early, but if he used a fake name, he can just use a fake signature, right? Then they won’t have anything to hold him in any legal bindings. Yeah. That’ll have to do. 

He looks at the interviewer, but she’s not holding out a pen. She’s holding out an ink pad. They want his _fingerprint._ He’s essentially been cornered; if he signs, he doesn’t know exactly what he’s signing, since it’s so many pages and he doubts they’ll give him time to process the whole thing, but if he doesn’t sign, he just exposes himself.

What the hell. He’ll do it. If it goes to shit, he can always skip town and lay low for this series of Danganronpa, and then return to his usual protests once it’s over. At least, this way, there’s a risk, and with risk comes bravery - nobody will be able to say that he didn’t _try._ He presses his thumb against the contract.

And everything changes.

* * *

 

Two guards, not in cosplay, just dressed all in black, emerge from the other door - the one behind the interviewer. He had barely even noticed it when he came in, but with the door behind him locked, he might have just overlooked his only escape route. The guards grab one of his arms each, forcing him up from the chair and holding him in place.

The interviewer stands up.

“Even with this cosplay, I’m surprised you didn’t recognise me. I’ve been told I look so much like my nephew,” she says.

“Your nephew? What the fuck? This is illegal!”

“You’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t you…Kokichi?”

_Shit._ “What? Who are you?”

“It could probably be called Ultimate Luck that you and I never met before, or this whole plan would have been ruined! You know Katsumi, don’t you?”

“K-Katsumi?”

“Your friend. The one you traumatised for a fucking political demonstration.”

“I…I apologised…it was for the cause…”

“The _cause?_ Get real, Kokichi! You’re just an anarchist because you don’t want to be boring. You have to be different, you can’t just settle with going along with the crowd. Wow…I sound like a true mastermind, confessing my plan to you before you’re even dead!”

“Before I’m…what?”

“Oh yeah, you’re going to die.”

“You’re going to kill me?”

“Why would I do that? Look out there, those hoards of fans who can’t wait to rip someone open and take it to trial. They’ll do that for you. And now we have your official fingerprint on file, we can always say that you willingly signed the contract. The legal system is very…biased…in our favour. Think of all the good that Danganronpa has done for the world!”

“I’m sorry for what happened…for what I did…to your nephew, but he wouldn’t want this! He fights against this!”

“Oh, I know he does. And I’ve tried to talk him out of it but he’s politically uncultured, I guess. But family comes before anything. I’m not surprised you don’t know that, since your own parents shoved you off onto the government orphanages before you could even talk.”

That hits hard. He thought only Katsumi knew about that but…obviously, he thought he could trust his aunt. That’s the only explanation he has, because the alternative of being intentionally betrayed would checkmate him here and now.

“I played the long game,” she says, “and applied to Danganronpa the week after you traumatised him. It’s all been worth it, going through these generic applicants, because I’ve finally got you right where I want you.”

* * *

 

The guards pull his arms behind his back, and he feels a pop in his shoulder - he might have just dislocated something, but he won’t cry in front of her. Handcuffs cut into his flesh as they march him past the interviewer and out of the other door. Thinking that the moment he gets outside, he can scream - even if it alerts the police and gets him arrested for past crimes, that would be a preferable option to Katsumi seeing him on screen without knowing his intentions, feeling betrayed all over again - he complies with the guards as they lead him down a long hallway. Surely they’ll be reaching the doors to the outside by now?

But no. They go down in a maintenance elevator, and that’s when Kokichi really begins to struggle. Every turn he’s made today has led him to disaster, and he feels helpless as he’s blindfolded and shoved into the boot of a car, parked in a deserted underground car park. 

Kicking and screaming does nothing for him. He remembers the information he read once, that he should try and kick out the tail light to get attention from other drivers, but it seems like Team Danganronpa - or Katsumi’s aunt, working on her own agenda - took every measure necessary to prevent his tricks. This isn’t checkmate, this is the board being flipped and turned over, each piece going into the wrong place and ruining the game. 

He’s transported to a small room. When he’s thrown inside, he feels the hard concrete hit his back, and he’s stunned into immobility for a moment. But he’s alone now, he’s sure of it, even with the blindfold on. It takes a good few minutes of work to rub his face against the wall and slowly ease his eyes free, and when he does, he sees that the door doesn’t even have a window on it - he’s completely isolated and trapped. The walls, although thick, have scratches on them, like someone else was here once. Looking closely, he sees faint traces of blood, and a sentence written, as if someone had torn off their fingernails in an attempt to leave their mark.

_“RANTARO AMAMI WAS HERE.”_

He sighs. His hands can’t move from the handcuffs, but his mind is screaming, _“I am too!”_

_“I exist, Team Danganronpa, I exist.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this chapter! Please comment if you did, I love reading your comments!


	11. Kaede Akamatsu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaede Akamatsu is trying to run from a past that she feels disconnected from. In this world of popularity, you either assimilate, or die. And Danganronpa shines as her only saving grace. After all, she's perfect for a killing game.
> 
> She doesn't have any faith in humanity.

Kaede struts across the early morning campus with all the confidence of someone who knows that they’re untouchable. Dawn has barely broken, and yet she’s perfectly made up - red lipstick, straightened hair, high heels that announce her presence across the echo of the hallways. The deadline for essays is approaching at midday, and she’s likely one of the only ones who hasn’t submitted anything yet - because, of course, why would she want to waste time writing thousands of words on old philosophers who have no more morality than any of the pathetic people who exist in this generation? 

No, she has a plan. Kaede Akamatsu always has a plan.

She pulls off one of her hair-clips and twists it into a long, thin pin. Picking the lock on the box for essays, she rummages through the hours of work done by other students until she finds the essay with the cover sheet she’s looking for. The smartest girl in her class. It’s a simple matter of replacing the cover sheet, now, with her own, locking the box back up again, and then leaving. She owns this university. Nobody dares question her cold rule.

Then again, why is she even bothering with keeping up the straight-A façade when, after today, she might never have to attend university again? Her parents just want _‘the best’_ for her, and surely they’ll be pleased with more money and fame than even she knows what to do with. It’s just that her definition of ‘best’ isn’t exactly what they think; their aspirations for their butter-wouldn’t-melt daughter are modest enough - a degree, a husband, a family. She wants to be the femme fatale that the world is scared of, a woman so steeped in her own autonomy that nobody dares cross her; a woman of little faith, striking terror into the hearts of, well, everyone. 

High heels, red lipstick, reclaiming the words that were thrown at her when, in school, she was only seventeen, and…

The best way to lose faith in people is to have too much of it to begin with.

Right now, she’s got time to kill, and destructive impulses to give into. Her Danganronpa interview isn’t until later in the day, and she’ll be damned if she’s one of the losers who camp out in tents to get the first spot in the queue. Since she gave up on humanity long ago, she’s now free to do whatever she wants. In fact, she remembers the day she gave up on everything, when all hope and light left her fragile soul.

* * *

 

_The school bell rings and Kaede slips into the bathroom, her books clutched in her arms. She looks at the lipstick on the mirror - insults written about her - and sighs, cleaning it off with tap water. People just don’t understand what it’s like to be a loser until they’ve been one._

_But at least she has Kana. The girl who dropped out of the sky one day, a transfer student to the school, and whom she’s been seeing in secret for weeks now. In this exact bathroom, the insults can’t hurt her, because this is where they meet before class to talk about their dreams and how much they hate the hierarchy of popular people in school._

* * *

 

Keys in her hand, the familiar feeling of something burning inside her. She just wants to make the world hurt enough to drown out the ache of not feeling anything any more. It’s not like she even knows the owner of the car she’s decided to key. Whoever it is - they probably want to hurt her. Everyone wants to hurt her.

* * *

 

_And of course, she feels sad. Because she’s done it again, fallen for a girl. But now, in the low light of the bathroom, she feels confident enough to hold her hand; maybe even confess._

_The words spill from her lips._

_“Kana, I think I love you.”_

* * *

 

Who does she belong with? She’s tried to love people before, but that feels too much like giving up, and when she’s spent years building up walls around herself, letting them crumble for the sake of _someone else_ is just not worth it. For someone so enamoured with control, signing up for Danganronpa is a strange reality.

Sure, she doesn’t believe in anyone at all. But what if they change her to become as naïve as she once was?

* * *

 

_Cameras, now. The door bursting open. Popular people surrounding her, snapping photos. Going viral,_ **_Kaede Akamatsu is a dyke!_ ** _Kana laughing along with them. Kana joining the popular group. The word ‘challenge’. The word ‘dare’. The word betrayal, only on her own tongue._

_She buys her first red lipstick the very next day._

* * *

 

The morning falls away from her and, when the campus begins to flood with people, she makes a quick exit. She should probably make her way to the Danganronpa interview building, but she doesn’t want to confront that just yet; today could be her last day in control of the world. So she sits on a deserted bench, on a street in the middle of nowhere. There are no signs of life around her, and she realises that the entire world could begin to end, and she’d be the last to know about it. 

Still, the apocalypse is just what happens when you’re too scared to let go of things long dead.

She checks her phone, the social media queen reigning supreme, seeing floods of messages from people begging her to retweet campaigns to her hundreds of thousands of followers. 

“Donate to the fund for life saving surgery!” - Ew. Next.

“Raise awareness for this unknown disease!” - She doesn’t care.

Continually swiping to delete the notifications, the idea that she could use her platform to promote good isn’t lost on her, but she likes the idea of the world begging at her feet for something she could so easily give. She owes nothing to anybody, and she’s not going to let even an atom of herself be exploited to help others.

Instead, she posts a status. A photo of her high heels, legs perfectly crossed to give the image of a successful businesswoman, showing off the beauty that she knows she has, tantalising all those who thought they could ever exploit the love she thought she had in her heart. The caption states that she’s going to her Danganronpa interview.

Comments flood in.

_“I’m so jealous! Go get em!”_

_“Omg, wig! GL sis! We stan a queen!”_

_“This outfit is a power move.”_

_“I love you Kaede! Please notice me!”_

_“Who even are you any more? I don’t recognise the bitch you’ve become…”_

That last comment is from Kaiya. She never thought that her sister…her _twin…_ would take their hatred of one another public. It’s a simple matter of deleting the comment, but Kaiya has dirt on Kaede that could ruin her entire reputation - no, ruin her _life._ Stories of blackmail and cruelty that Kaede deemed to be necessary, a last resort.

* * *

 

_Kaede runs home, skipping class to cry. She’s been ruined, humiliated, shamed. And it’s not ever going to be this way again. Lipstick in hand, she paints her face and tells herself that there’s power in leaving, in starting over. But there’s no way she can just leave school - her parents would never let her. She could, however…become someone else._

_Kaiya is smart. Liked enough, but she just keeps out of the way, really. Like a ghost in the halls. Nobody really knows much about her, which means that she’s essentially a blank slate to become everything that Kaede wants to. The only thing is, Kaede doesn’t want her sister to be happy - she wants that all for herself._

_Hacking Kaiya’s phone is easy. Finding anything on there that would shame her sister to their parents is harder, but with a few flirty texts to older boys and fabricated evidence to add to the blackmail, Kaede manages to get Kaiya to do whatever she wants. And she wants Kaiya’s life._

_The next day, Kaiya walks into school in Kaede’s clothes, and bears the brunt of the bullying. Kaede, renamed and powerful, dons her soon-to-be signature red lipstick and assimilates into the popular crowd, even when that involves bullying her own sister…bullying herself._

* * *

 

She hovers over her messages, wondering whether to text Kaiya. What would she even say? Would she apologise for everything? Or would she congratulate her on reclaiming her identity once they both moved away from the school, to different towns, to the reality of becoming themselves again after two years of pretending?

Some things have to stay buried.

This thought is all that sticks in her mind once she makes her way through the queue and into the Danganronpa interview room. There’s no use in clinging to a past that she’d rather forget, and there’s especially no use in letting that hinder her, clinging to the abyss of her mind, when she’s about to complete the culmination of who she is. She’ll become the best protagonist ever, and then the world will watch and weep about who they made Kaede Akamatsu into; she’ll force everyone who hated her to love her on screen.

And to do that, she needs to establish dominance, create a personality for herself that seems true. So she approaches someone she thinks will be an easy, or at least interesting, target.

“Hello,” the girl says, “I’m Kirumi Toujou.”

“Kaede Akamatsu. I’d say nice to meet’cha, but I guess your hands might be around my throat in a few weeks. Whatever, that’s kinda hot if you think about it, right?”

“I…I guess?”

“Sorry. Caught you off guard there. I’m not exactly a _shy_ bi.”

“Oh, so you’re…”

“Kirumi, honey, I’m applying to die. Don’t think it matters if I like a bit of girl on girl action.”

“Right. Yes. I was only going to add on that…I also enjoy that.”

“Hey, maybe we could team up and give the viewers a _real_ show in the game?”

“Aren’t you here to murder?”

“Eh, it’s complicated,” Kaede bites her nails - they look ugly and bare whenever she doesn’t have her sharp false nails on, “I don’t really care either way.”

“Then why apply? If you don’t care, why take a spot away from someone who dedicates their life to Danganronpa?”

“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about them anyway. They can have as many fucking shrines to Kirigiri or Naegi of whatever, it still won’t make them a compelling person.”

“You’re right. Half the people in here are practically dead already, they’re so _boring.”_

“Glad to know you’re on board. So what are you, Kirumi? Killer or victim?”

“You missed _survivor.”_

“Let’s be real, nobody _survives_ Danganronpa. The moment they’ve got your signature, you - the _you_ that you are now - that’s all gone. Crushed, disintegrated, whatever. Boom.”

“That could be a good thing.”

“Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“So, what do you want your talent to be?”

“Don’t really care. Just something that’s, like, meaningful, y’know?”

“I get that. I’d wanna be something…self-serving. Call it selfish, I don’t care.”

“It’s not selfish, Kirumi. It’s _real.”_

“Yeah, I suppose.”

* * *

 

When Kirumi leaves, Kaede thinks about how each person in this room is real. They might be boring, and she might hate them all, but they exist merely by virtue of breathing - and when they breathe the same air as her, the humility of her presence as a human sticks like a knife in her chest. That can’t be right. She’s a protagonist through and through, better than them all after years of torment. Yeah, she’s designed for better things.

She crosses her arms. That’s the last time she approaches someone in here. If they want a piece of the infamous Kaede Akamatsu, they can come to her. And someone does.

“H-Hey, are you…here to apply?”

She sighs. This girl looks like the regular run-of-the-mill Danganronpa fan. All stuttering and plain looking. She’ll never get accepted, not in a million years. The idea that someone like that could even think of trying to murder someone makes her stifle a laugh; god, if she gets accepted, then Danganronpa is going downhill. At least it means that Kaede can murder her, or at least get her executed as a laugh for the world. She’s got Chapter One victim written all over her.

“Why else would I be here?”

“T-That’s true. Me too.”

“Cool. I’m Kaede Akamatsu.”

“Oh, that’s…nice.”

“Aren’t you going to give me your name?” Kaede asks. This girl seems ridiculously starstruck, and there’s a part of Kaede that hopes she’s an obsessive fan, not of Danganronpa, but of _her._

“Y-Yeah, I should…I’m Mariko Idabashi.”

“Right. Why are we talking to each other, again?”

“Because, uh, I’m a little…nervous about applying. Aren’t you?”

“If you’re nervous, you’re unsure. I’m not unsure, so I’m not nervous.”

“O-Oh, right. So, you’re decided, then? You really want to apply for Danganronpa?”

“Obviously.”

“And your talent - what would you want to be?”

“Anything. Anything that means something.”

“Ah, me too.”

Tired of Mariko’s simplicity, Kaede glares at her with cold eyes, hoping that she’ll get the hint and walk away. She does. And just in time, too, because she hears her name being called for the interview; she’s glad that she made Mariko leave out of sheer intimidation, rather than having an excuse presented on a silver platter to walk away.

* * *

 

The interview room, one of many, envelops her the moment the door shuts, and her only option if she wants to maintain calm and cool is to stare straight ahead at the interviewer, dressed head to toe as Junko. Pathetic.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Kaede slams her hands on the table, “I’m protagonist, or I’m out.”

“And why should we do that? You realise that this interview is for _you_ to convince _us_ that you’re worthy, right?”

“Sure it is. But you could just select the participants by random lottery, and we’d all be left wondering why we weren’t good enough. So I want you to tell me, what do you love about Danganronpa? Why _should_ I apply?”

“Kaede, this isn’t how these interviews normally go.”

“Great,” she crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, feigning disinterest and dominance, “then I already stand out.”

“That you certainly do. And to answer your question, I think you should apply for Danganronpa because what else have you got to lose?”

“You’ve been doing research?”

“Call it an educated guess. Half the people who come through here have nothing worth living for anyway.”

“Well, that ain’t right. Not wholly, anyway. The world thinks I’m great, and I like that, but that’s only surface level. I wanna apply to Danganronpa to feel proper risk, y’know?”

“Proper risk?”

“Yeah. The idea that I could die any second is thrilling. And honestly, I want the world to fall into despair whenever they see me on screen. I wanna make them realise how damn fake everything they love is. Danganronpa already does that, but I’d be the final nail in the coffin.”

“Is it Danganronpa’s job to bring despair to a world outside of our influence?”

“Bullshit,” Kaede says, “your influence stretches out across the fabric of existence. This _is_ a Danganronpa society.”

“Right. And you want to be part of that?”

“What, society? As much as I hate it, I’m never going to dismantle it if I just pack up and live in a cave somewhere. I’ve got to get to the root of everything we think and do, and then destroy it. I’m perfect for a killing game. I don’t have any faith in humanity.”

“Okay, Kaede. I think we have enough. You can go now.”

“That’s _it?_ You’re not even gonna ask me about my talent ideas, or anything?”

“You can go, Kaede.”

“Fine. But don’t expect me to come crawling back if you don’t accept me. The world doesn’t deserve my mercy.”

She storms out of the room and onto the street outside, dazed and shaken from the interview. The idea that she could be rejected, just adding another failure to the pile of her life, scares her to her core. All she can do now is call a taxi and wait.

It starts to rain outside, and she doesn’t notice anything apart from the dripping of water down the taxi window - rooting for the smallest drop to reach the bottom the fastest, feeling disappointed when it merges with a larger raindrop and assimilates itself into a dual win. Anything that isn’t solo is completely worthless.

Before she can even realise that the taxi isn’t driving her back to her apartment, she dozes off.

* * *

 

And when she wakes, she’s not anywhere familiar. She’s got a rope tied around her neck - tightly, so tightly that she can’t take it off, and she’s lying on an elevated table above the ground. Whoever put her in this situation knew that she’d try to escape. 

“I’m surprised that you didn’t recognise me as the taxi driver,” her captor says, “even with my disguise on. You should know all about pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“K-Kaiya?”

“Yep, you got it.”

“W-What are you…?”

Kaede tries to move, but her sister cocks a gun and points it directly at her.

“I’m just taking back what I could have been. All the potential you stole from me.”

“I…I only used your name! The rest was all me!”

“Yeah, you fucked up being Kaede and thought you’d take a second shot at popularity with my identity. You realise how much that screwed _me_ over? I thought we were family, but it’s turns out you’re just a bitch, out for yourself.”

“C’mon…Kaiya…”

“No. Save it, Kaede. I’ve been planning this for months, ever since you let slip on your social media that you were thinking of applying to Danganronpa. It’s so _easy_ to keep up with you when you document your whole life online, living for the popularity you get. It’s all fake!”

“Why do you care?”

“Oh my _god!_ You’re so selfish, you have no idea what it’s like to be me! To see my sister take my name and pull herself up to status in school, kicking me to the ground, and then for you to go on and live this seemingly perfect life? I can’t stand it! I’m stuck here, barely making rent on this shitty apartment, and you’re being the perfect kid for our parents that _I should have been!”_

“So what are you gonna do? Kill me? Spend your life in jail because you were jealous of your _better_ sister?”

Kaiya laughs bitterly, still holding the gun. She takes a letter off the desk and begins to read it aloud.

“Dear World,

I just can’t do this anymore. I feel so hopeless. Every day is just work, sleep, pay rent, on and on in a cycle of depression that I can’t escape from. It’s torture, and it hurts even more that I have to see my sister, the golden girl, loved by everyone online. I should be a good sister, be proud of her, but I feel like it should be me up there.

I just want to be happy. And if I can’t be happy, then I just want to be dead. It’s such a simple request, and I don’t think the world should have any say in my choices - even the choice to kill myself. 

Please, take this as my last will and testament. I don’t want my sister to get anything I own, nor my parents. I want any tiny amount of money I own to be donated to charity, and then I want to fade from the world like the worthless, insignificant drop in a vast ocean that I am. 

This world is beautiful, but I am not enough to keep living in it. Forget me,

Kaiya.”

“What the fuck?” Kaede says.

“I think it’s perfect, don’t you? Really sums up that gut punch that I’m going for with this suicide.”

Kaiya takes Kaede’s bag from the corner of the room and rummages around in it for her purse, which she pockets. It’s at this moment that Kaede realises that her sister is wearing the same outfit that she left her apartment in this morning; and looking down, she sees that she’s wearing unfamiliar clothes - a jumper that’s far too shapeless, with a mismatched skirt that she wouldn’t normally be seen dead in. And it all clicks into place.

“You’re going to…?” Kaede says, terrified. 

“Just dawned on you, huh? Yeah, I’m taking back what should be mine, and I’m sorry, but you just don’t fit into the narrative of Kaede Akamatsu.”

“I _am_ Kaede Akamatsu!”

“Not for much longer,” Kaiya says, “‘cause you’ll just be another sad suicide in a tragic world that pretends to care. And me? I’ll be playing the double agent, pretending to be you pretending to be someone else, all whilst I woo the audience of Danganronpa.”

“K-Kaiya, you can’t…”

“Oh, I can. It’s time for me to take something of value from you. And you’re selfish - you always have been - so I guess the only thing that matters to you is your life.”

“Please…”

“Too late, Kaede.”

Kaiya shoves the table before Kaede can resist, and it topples, the legs buckling under the forces until her body falls, flailing, into the air, and the rope pulls taut.

As she struggles for air that will never come, she watches her sister, the new Kaede, smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't updated this fic in over a month; I've been working on some other stuff, like the other fics I've uploaded since the last update of this one. And also, the best news ever, I got a girlfriend! I asked out the girl of my dreams and she said yes, so life right now is pretty good!
> 
> Hope yall enjoyed this instalment of Kaede Akamatsu Is Murder Regina George :^)
> 
> Please comment!


	12. Ryoma Hoshi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryoma wants to prove something to the whole world. He wants to prove that he can be loved.

“Fine, fuck you too!”

“You’re such an asshole, you know that Ryoma? A ridiculous asshole!”

“Oh, _I’m_ the ridiculous one? You’re a bitch! Yeah, I wasted two shit years with you!”

“Really? You really think that…Ryoma, I…”

“Yeah, Hisa, I fucking do.”

“So is this it? You’re…” Hisa begins to cry, “you’re breaking up with me?”

“I don’t fucking know, alright! Give me time!”

“You want time? I’ll give you time! Leave…just go!”

“I pay half the rent on this fucking place, _you_ go!”

“Fine. If that’s what you want, then fine. I’ll be staying at my parents’. Don’t contact me until you’ve cleaned up your act.”

“Don’t fucking bother, you bitch. I want nothing to do with you.”

Hisa, making a sad attempt to hide the tears in her eyes, storms past Ryoma and out of the door to their apartment. He sighs - running after her will be a waste of time; this happens weekly at best. God knows how they’ve stayed together for this long, anyway. It’s likely, and he knows it, that he seeps up anger and lives off it as fuel, never thinking about anything except the next fight, the next time he’ll feel something. That’s what this is always about.

* * *

 

Only an hour ago, he’d been in love with her. Massively in love; he’d bought her roses on the way home from work, thinking he could surprise her with flowers and wine, maybe even a dinner together. But there’d been someone on the street who just…annoyed him.

It was a comment about his height that started everything off. This déjà vu life he’s living seeps into the swirling catacombs of his soul; always being insulted and biting back and having to explain to Hisa that when he’s in a manic mood, he just can’t see that she’s worth enough for him to back down from a fight. He can’t be weak. Ryoma Hoshi may be small, but god damn it, he won’t be called a coward.

One punch leads to another and the roses are discarded to blood on the pavement. Crushed beneath his feet as he angles his body to fly through the air and land kicks, punches, headbutts, anything that will bruise against the man who dared to think that he was an easy target. It’s a fair fight, but that only means that he comes out of it with blood congealing against his lip, drying into a bulbous almost-scab in the cool air of the night. Past the time he promised Hisa he’d be home.

Instead of greeting his girlfriend with flowers, he’d greeted her an hour late, with a busted lip and the dismissive arrogance of someone who’s wasted all their energy in a fight. It feels stupid to argue with her, but she tells him that she’s sick of him getting in fights, he tells her that she doesn’t understand how hard life is, and they scream until it can’t be called love in any form any more.

And then she leaves. It’ll be a few days at her parents’ house, where they inevitably try to convince her to break up with him, but time apart just makes her nostalgic, and she’ll once again begin to view the good parts of him that she doesn’t have the heart to accept were stomped out of him in a nameless fight long ago. Ryoma has become a shell of happiness, having once had _something;_ now, his only way to feel anything is if emotions drip off the fist that connects with his face time and time again.

But not this time. This time, it’s gone too far. Because in that fight, he broke. And in this, he realised that there’s no way to fix himself whilst Hisa still doesn’t take him seriously. He’s supposed to love her, and there are times in which he does - beautiful times, where she’s the only thing he can think about, where he wants to be better for her, times where he buys her roses and expects them to make it all the way home in the dark - but this isn’t always. He can’t love her truly if she doesn’t take him seriously; when he gets into fights, the disappointment in her voice seethes deep within him, festering like venom in his already-open wounds, cutting and scathing, and that’s not love.

He needs to prove to her that he’s stronger than them all.

* * *

 

There’s a bottle of whiskey in the cupboard under the sink that they’re saving for Hisa’s parents’ wedding anniversary. It’s an expensive one, but he doesn’t care - in fact, he’s glad of it, that’ll prove his worth even more, if he can take something with meaning and crush it into nothingness. With each shot he takes, the pit of his stomach burns with even more destructive fire until the alcohol stops hurting whenever he raises it to his cut lip, and suddenly, everything inside the bottle is gone and it’s just…hollow.

He throws it at the wall.

The rest of the night becomes an inevitable blur. Cliché, but that’s exactly how his life is; trying to play the hero and find a villain to fight against. He’s fought against addiction, discrimination, and there’s nothing tangible for him to hurt anymore except himself. What he wouldn’t do right now for something to take the edge off, something illegal, but he tried to get sober and lost contact with all of his old dealers, which means he’ll have to do the awkward thing and approach someone new, hoping that they’re selling what he’s buying.

Which leaves him asking, paying, kneeling on the floor of a public bathroom with his feet against the locked door. Rolled up notes, wide eyes, and he’s primed for…well, he just doesn’t feel like dying as much any more.

Something alien to him echoes around the bustling corners of his mind until he ends up slapping his own face to pull himself out of the abyss. Then there’s stumbling across streets, nearly being hit by cars, miles and miles of territory that he needs to lay claim to. He can’t even sleep with the drugs running through his system, so he just wanders aimlessly and aimlessly and aimlessly until the paranoia hits him like a freight train and he ends up alone.

It’s not that cold, but he shivers with the tremors that rock his whole body. What has he done? He’s gone out and made himself useless, giving into things he promised Hisa he’d never do again. But _no…_ no way! He has a point to prove. 

He thinks that she doesn’t love him enough, so he’ll play on the one thing he relates to most of all, jealousy. His jealousy of the men with normal office jobs, over five foot at least, the ones who can carry a bunch of roses home without wrecking the lives of everyone around them. And her…she loves him, somewhat. He knows that, but he needs _more._ He wants to be adored, worshipped; he wants the name Ryoma Hoshi to burn on the tongues of people who only _wish_ they could claw at a chance of being as good as him.

So, somehow, as dawn breaks over him, he ends up exactly where he needs to be.

* * *

 

The Danganronpa interview building looms over him and he hates the fact that he has to measure everything by height. Still, he doesn’t want to seem too eager, so he waits for a few applicants to filter in before he joins the queue, standing on his own, yet still drowned by the insignificance of being a face in a crowd. And all of that comes crashing down onto him when a tall woman almost trips over him, like he wasn’t even there to begin with, or at least like he wasn’t worth looking out for.

“Watch your fuckin’ step,” he glares up at the woman.

“Apologies.”

“Go on…I’m waitin’ for it. You _couldn’t see me down there?_ Or maybe you _nearly stepped on me?_ Get it over with, I’ve heard ‘em all.”

“I wasn’t…I just…I’m Kirumi Toujou.”

“Ryoma Hoshi,” he says, shaking her extended hand, wondering why the hell she wants to talk to him, “what brings a pretty lady like you here, eh?”

“Oh, a multitude of reasons, I suppose.”

“Cryptic. Well, at least you seem a little bit original. All these mindless fucks in the crowd, look at ‘em, lusting for murder like they ain’t all the same boring shits. Guess I’m no exception, though,” he laughs, “I got a point to prove.”

“Oh?”

“Besides the point,” he says, not wanting to elaborate, partially because he can’t even form his own thoughts properly on a comedown, “you won’t wanna hear about all my drama. And whatever, if I get in, I’ll still get to get my hands all bloody, which is a plus.”

“Ah.”

“You ain’t sayin’ much.”

“Yes…I suppose I’m not. Thank you, Ryoma.”

“Weird,” he says, but he, for some reason, smiles a little sadly at her as she walks along with the queue and everyone progresses inside. Without getting caught up underneath anyone else’s feet, he gets inside the room too, and settles himself at the edge, before realising that he’s not even _applied_ to Danganronpa. How the hell is he going to get himself an interview between all of these people who’ve probably spent months going through the application process?

He settles himself on looking at a man with blue-black hair, styled in typical protagonist style. Something…enamours him. He won’t go up and talk to him, but sitting there staring seems to be a good alternative; there’s blood in his eyes, and Ryoma likes that. There’s a part of him hoping that this man gets accepted into Danganronpa alongside him, and they can start a whirlwind friendship that would bloom into beautiful on-screen angst when he’s killed and Ryoma, protagonist, loved by everyone, mourns with glistening teardrops that can be effortlessly marketed.

Allowing his eyes to follow this man around the room, Ryoma wishes that it was he whom he was dating, not Hisa. How well they’d go together…instead of being chastised for fighting, he imagines that this man would join in until their blood mingles in a pact that means something like _I’ll love you forever._ Or at least, _I’ll mop up your blood if you still kiss me when my lips are heavy._

Lost in thought, he’s wandering aimlessly, and once again, someone bumps into him. The imagination of love in his chest boils over into anger as he looks up at the giant of a man in front of him.

“My name is Ryoma,” he snaps at the man, “and yes, I’m aware of how small I am. I’m applying to Danganronpa and I won’t tell you why. That should be all your questions answered, yeah?”

“I didn’t want to ask any questions.”

“Whatever. They all do.”

_“They?_ I’m not one of them.”

“Sure you ain’t. You’re all the same round here.”

“Then surely you’re one of them too?”

“Nah, I’m different. I’m not in this for fame or glory,” he lies.

“Whatever then, you’re boring.”

“Ha. I ain’t heard that one before, that’s new.”

Surprisingly, the man walks away before Ryoma even realises that he didn’t get his name. It’s not like it matters - it’s unlikely that they’ll both get accepted, and if they do, they’ll both be too raw and different from what Team Danganronpa does to the personalities of contestants to even remember this conversation. It hurts, though, that he’s not important enough to even have a proper conversation with anyone.

He wants to find the other man again, the one he’s already imagined falling in and out of tragic love with. When he sees him slipping into an interview room, the heartbreak of a not-quite-Romeo-and-Juliet drips from the corners of his mind into the quagmire of the unknown heart that dwells somewhere in his chest.

Slowly, the room filters out, as people go to their interviews. What once was full becomes empty. Ryoma is left almost-alone.

And finally, the cleaners file in, mopping the floor, not even noticing that he’s stood in the shadows of the corner; if he’s going to act, he needs to do it _now._

* * *

 

Bolting across the room, he bursts through the nearest available door and finds a woman in the middle of taking off a peach-pink wig.

“H-Hello?”

“I”m Ryoma Hoshi,” he says, “and I don’t care that you’ve finished work and probably clocked out.”

“Are you here to rob us or something?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Not really.”

“Then I'm not here to rob you. Sit down,” he says to her. She does, looking bewildered.

“What do you want, then?”

“I’m here to apply for Danganronpa.”

“But -”

“Look, I know, I know. I know my name isn’t on the list or whatever, but come on, work with me here. What do you want? You want me to give you money? Put a knife to your throat? Just let me fucking _know.”_

“Instead of persuading me to let you talk, just talk.”

“Oh…right,” he’s taken off guard a little, but that doesn’t phase him for long, “listen, I want to be in Danganronpa because I’m selfish. Nobody takes me seriously because of my height. I want to be loved, and I want to be listened to. Fuck that, actually - I want to show my girlfriend that the whole world is in love with me. The people watching, they’ll _love_ me. You can give me a tragic backstory and watch as I’m adored by the whole fucking world. Then she’ll see…then everyone will see! I’m not just my height, I’m so much more.”

“Right,” the interviewer says, pulling out a notepad and writing everything down, “so you’re applying because…you want to be loved?”

“I don’t give a damn about love, not truly. I want to be admired. I want hordes of fans who worship the ground I walk on. Even the other people in the game will see how valuable I am, and then I’ll be so much more than my height. My girlfriend will take me seriously once she sees that there’s competition.”

“And what if people don’t love you?”

“Oh, they will. I mean, you can make my personality into whatever you want! Just give me a damn chance!”

“Even if we did, we’d have to have something more to work on than just the fact that you want to be loved.”

“Fine. I can fight. I could even kill people, fuck, I _would_ kill people and I’d still be loved on screen! I could create amazing murders, even the other contestants wouldn’t wanna send me to execution! Honestly…nobody will ever forget me.”

“How can you be so sure of that when you’re begging us for a chance to be remembered?”

“Fuck that. I can be remembered with or without you. But the shit I can bring to your show…I mean, I walked in here without an application or a leg to stand on! That’s the kind of balls you need.”

“Alright, Ryoma. I can say that we will consider you for the show. I’ll put your name in with all the other applicants.”

“Thank you.”

“But that’s not a promise. It’s not a definite yes. It’s a maybe, at best.”

“I can work with a maybe.”

When the interviewer shows Ryoma out of the room, he leaves with a faint smile on his face. Finally, he might mean something.

* * *

 

He checks his phone.

**< From Hisa: 19:10> **Ryoma? I’m at my parents’ but I just want to apologise.

**< From Hisa: 19:15> **I shouldn’t have made you mad like that…

**< From Hisa: 19:17> **I want to move back in

**< From Hisa: 19:28> **I want to have a normal relationship with you…

**< From Hisa: 19:45> **I’m sorry…please reply…

He turns his phone off and checks into a hotel for the next week. There are more important things now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! I know it's a long shot, but we're so close to 200 comments on this, and if we could hit this on this chapter, I'd be so happy!! Thank you for reading :^)


	13. Miu Iruma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miu is a model, but she wants to be so much more than her beauty. She hates the whole world for the role they've put her into, and since everyone has used and abandoned her, she feels like there's nothing left to go for except a killing game.

“I’ve scheduled you in for some minor touch ups,” he says, glaring at her. He’s always glaring at her; his hands, wandering and calloused, make appointments for her, dictate her Instagram posts, tie the clasps of bikinis, and flash camera shots behind a stark white background. Miu thinks that this washes her out, but she’s not being paid to talk or give opinions - nobody thinks she’s smart enough for that anyway.

Her golden calling card is her smile. Or, at least, it was. Back when she was eighteen, fresh into the modelling industry, curves that she had not yet learned to hate, she was known for her smile; sure, her teeth weren’t the whitest, or the straightest, but there was apparently something genuine in her that agents wanted to snatch up for themselves. One man, Hayato, had fought tooth and nail to sign her to an exclusive contract. But this man - the one pressing her for appointments and more photographs - that’s not Hayato.

See, he’s smart. He’d seen an eighteen year old trying to break into modelling, and he’d taken her for dinner, given her photoshoots, taken her to exclusive parties and plied her with champagne and skimpy dresses, and then her drunken hand had glazed itself across a contract and here she is, now, two years later. Her identity all to be bartered for, slick hands against her shoulders, compliments falling against flesh, pale lips begging for something pink, saying ‘yes’ because it’s the only word they’ve been taught.

The last two years have dragged her through eating disorders, losing friends, surgery that she doesn’t want, dissatisfaction after dissatisfaction until she feels, now, like she’s going to break. Hayato paid for breast implants, and she _should_ be thankful for that, even though she never wanted it; nothing that he pays for with his dirty money will ever feel comfortable against her body. The obsessive diets, the clothes, the fakery - she wants out.

“What touch ups are they?” Miu asks.

“Now, now,” Hayato glares at her, pursing his lips, “I thought we agreed that you would trust me with what’s best for you?”

“N-No…I do…I just, I just want to _know.”_

“Fine. God knows why I even put up with you. You’re so _demanding.”_

“I’m sorry, I…”

“You’re in for some nose adjustments, and we’re gonna lift your face a little. Although I might ask if they have any last minute liposuction treatment. You could stand to lose a few pounds.”

“I…”

“Go on, get out of here. I’ve got a meeting about the Tokyo shoot next month. Just…stay out of fucking trouble.”

Miu walks back to her dressing room, locking the door behind her so she’s not disturbed as she takes off her clothes and stares at herself in the mirror. Pulling at her stomach, she can’t differentiate between skin and flesh, because it all seems like _too much_ on her. And maybe Hayato is right - no, he’s definitely right. It’s a wonder that she’s even booking any jobs when she looks like this; the scales must be lying to her, because they tell her she’s one hundred pounds, and yet she feels so much more. 

And, of course, there’s a fixation on numbers. If she can just lose one - only one - pound, then she’ll drop from three digits to two, and the feeling of bliss that will inevitably overtake her…

Yes, Hayato wants the best for her. He’s going to guide her to euphoria.

But, in the meantime, she’ll have to find her own little pleasures. Pulling a small plastic bag out of her locked top drawer, she arranges the cocaine inside into neat lines, checking each one is the exact same length - it’s the only thing, aside from the drugs themselves, that calms her.

She’s only just finished snorting all of the lines when there’s a knock on her door. Newly energised, she opens it to find a stranger there, a young girl - probably only eighteen - with her eyes wide in awe.

“M-Miu Iruma…it’s actually you?!”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just…I’m a huge fan! I -”

Hayato approaches from behind and glares at the girl.

“Is she bothering you, Miu? Fuck knows how these people are getting into the studio. Come on, you, get out before I call the police.”

“No, Hayato,” Miu says, “she’s fine. She’s my cousin.”

“Right. Well, in that case…keep it quick. Remember you’ve got a shoot at six.”

“Yeah, gotcha.”

Hayato leaves, closing the door behind him.

“T-Thank you,” the girl says, “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“Nah, it’s fine. Sit down,” Miu gestures to the soft pink bean bag in the corner of her dressing room. She starts to take off her makeup, somehow feeling comfortable around this girl. “What’s your name?”

“I…I’m Mio.”

“Hey, that’s similar to Miu!”

Mio smiles in admiration. Something about being adored makes Miu feel like everything could possibly be worth it, but she knows logically that that’s only her coked-up brain talking.

“I just…r-really wanted to meet you! You’re like, my idol. I mean, you’re so beautiful, and seeing you in all the magazines and on billboards…I want to be like you!”

“Oh honey, no you don’t. It’s not all glamour. And I know that’s easy for me to say, but trust me…I don’t know if I’d ever get into this business again, knowing what I know now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I guess I think too much, though. If you’re dead-set on this, like I was, then nothing I can say is gonna stop you.”

“But I admire you! I mean…if you’re gonna tell me not to try modelling, then I’m gonna believe you.”

“That’s a first.”

“What do you mean?”

“Being listened to. It doesn’t usually happen. Anyway, what is it you want? An autograph? Photo?”

“I just…I just wanted to see you, really.”

“Damn, Mio, you’re getting right to my heart. You gotta take my advice. Go do something amazing with your life. If you’re dead set on the modelling business, then you gotta go into it wanting to make a change. Be a producer, a set designer, a manager, just…treat people right, yeah?”

“Got it.”

Mio grabs her bag to leave, and Miu notices a strange symbol on it. It’s a red, jagged eye, and for some reason, it intrigues her. 

“What’s that? On your bag, I mean. Is it some new designer?”

“Oh, this? It’s Danganronpa.”

“D-Danganronpa?”

“Yeah, you’ve not heard of it?”

“I don’t really have time to keep up with pop culture.”

“It’s a…TV show. Like a real life killing game. People die in it.”

“And you watch that shit?”

“Everyone does! It’s like…the best thing!”

Sensing Miu’s disappointment, Mio leaves. Still, the idea of Danganronpa plays on her mind for a while - a gameshow where people really die? It’s like the ultimate way to give up control over your life, and despite knowing nothing about it, Miu feels as though she can, in some way, relate. For the next hour, she scrolls through any news article she can find - and there are many - about Danganronpa.

She steps outside for a cigarette, completely lost in the world of her phone. And she doesn’t see it.

The car.

* * *

 

Flitting in and out of consciousness, she notices wires, IV drips, but nothing solid enough to settle her mind on before she falls back asleep. When she wakes fully, there’s a sinking feeling in her chest, like something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. All she can fixate on is Danganronpa - the one, prevalent thought that was on her mind before she got hit by the car.

Shit. The car. And now she must be in hospital. But how much time has passed? Could she be an old woman already?

Her hands; she lifts her hands, eyeing them for wrinkles and spots, signs of ageing. But there’s only the pockmarks of cigarette burns and butterfly needles on otherwise perfect skin, so she must still be in her twenties at least. That’s not enough, though - she needs to _know._ There’s a yearning for knowledge within her that she’s never felt before, and when a nurse passes her by, she wants to scream until all of her questions are answered.

There are things, now, that she knows. 

_One: she is still twenty years old._  
_Two: she was in a coma for two months._  
 _Three: Hayato dropped her contract after a week of her unresponsiveness, due to the aforementioned fucking coma._  
 _Four: she needs to apply for Danganronpa._

If she wasn’t already settled on that final piece of knowledge, she would have settled on it the moment she glazed her eyes across the new series of Danganronpa, seeing Mio’s face beaming back at her. Protagonist. And the world loves her - far, far more than the world ever loved Miu. It could be jealousy, but it’s more like outright hatred, because the goddamn girl went and took Miu’s advice, and now she’s bigger and brighter than her former idol.

* * *

 

Then, there’s months of learning to walk again, flowers from her mother, from her cousins, but nothing from Hayato. Of course, she’s burned up already, and modelling is just a dream from days gone by, now. There’s months of physical therapy, mental therapy that she ignores, and then she’s back in a little apartment, with the empty promise from her mother that she’ll visit soon.

These are the months that don’t matter. Because nothing really _happens_ in them, they’re just a build up. An introduction to the opening act.

So, she stands in the queue for her Danganronpa interview. This is it. She checks her face in a pocket mirror. Breathes. Pushes past everyone with the mind of the model she never truly was.

Of course, people stare at her, and she blows kisses, using their starry eyed wonder at her beauty to get right to the front of the queue, and when the doors open, she’s the first inside, christening the room as her own. And then people are filing in behind her, and she’s just another one in the crowd, despite knowing in her heart that she came first. The most important.

But she’s just an outsider, at the edge of the main event. Everyone breaks off into splinter groups, and it’s at this exact moment that Miu realises she doesn’t really know how to _talk_ to people outside of the circle that Hayato had initiated her into. Just watching others leaves her dissatisfied; seeing them all make friends, and her only comfort is that these people will all inevitably betray one another. Yes, if she doesn’t get attached, then she can win.

That doesn’t work out too well for her. A girl approaches her, with long, dark brown hair tied back into two twin-tails. She seems shy, but there’s something menacing in her eyes that provokes intrigue within Miu’s heart, because maybe _some_ conversations are worth having.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?”

“What?” Miu asks, taken aback.

“You look it. In your eyes. You’re lonely.”

“What’s it to do with you?”

“Nothing. I’m just nosey.”

“Yeah, well, get outta my face!”

“Alright.”

The girl turns to leave, but Miu calls her back.

“No, wait, actually. I’m Miu,” she says.

“Maki.”

“Why are you applying?”

“It’s all I got, really.”

“I guess, me too. Although most of the people in here would say the same thing, wouldn’t they?”

Maki purses her lips and nods in affirmation, and then walks away without a goodbye, leaving Miu alone once more. It’s fitting, though, because she hears her name called, and walks towards her interview room.

* * *

 

She’s not as familiar with Danganronpa as she assumes the rest of the applicants are, so it takes her a few moments to realise that the interviewer is dressed as Junko Enoshima. It looks trashy, and she can picture Hayato’s voice in her mind, criticising the wig and the too-long false nails, but she pushes these thoughts aside; if she wants to be her own person, she’ll have to bite back against comments that aren’t her true thoughts.

“Hello, Miu.”

“Hey. What can I call you?”

“You can call me Junko.”

“No, for real, what’s your real name?”

“We’re advised not to give that out. The Junko persona, we find, helps applicants adjust to the choice they’re making.”

“Well, I’ve already made my damn choice. I want to be in Danganronpa.”

“So does everyone. Why should we choose you?”

“You don’t know me? I’m semi-famous. Having me in your show would boost your ratings.”

“Actually, no, it wouldn’t. People _become_ famous through Danganronpa. If you get accepted, you won’t be you any more, so it doesn’t really matter if you’re famous already.”

“R-Right. I mean…sure. I get that. I just wanna apply because I’m sick of it.”

“Sick of what?”

“Who I am. What I’ve become. You know Mio, from last season?”

“Ah, yes. Her execution was particularly…brutal.”

“I didn’t watch it. I didn’t…it’s not that I didn’t want to see her die, I just…she visited me once, the same day I got into a car accident. Told me she was a big fan. And then seeing her on the screen, loved by everyone…I felt surpassed. Unimportant.”

“So you were jealous?”

“I wouldn’t say jealous. Just…no, yeah, jealous. It’s a weird emotion to try and define.”

“You’d want to be a protagonist, I assume?”

“Of course I damn would!”

“Alright. But a protagonist spot is even harder to clinch than just a regular spot on Danganronpa. You’ll have to give us more to work with.”

“What else can I say? My personality is practically a blank slate! I’ve never had time to be myself, not since I got into modelling, and my manager told me who to be, how to act. Then I got into a stupid damn coma, and now I need someone to be. So you can do what you want with me. I’ve been used by people my entire life, one more time won’t hurt, especially if it’s for Danganronpa.”

“You’re coming across as a little desperate.”

“Shut the fuck up! You don’t know what I’ve been through just to get here.”

“Then _tell me._ Convince me you’re worth it, Miu.”

“All my fucking life people have told me that I am how I look - called me stupid, told me I was pretty but that was all there was to me. And I finally thought, hey, maybe I _am_ what everyone says, and I got myself signed to a fucking modelling agency, and then my stupid fucking manager dropsme the moment I get hit by a goddamn car! Everyone, at every turn in my life, has betrayed me, and I’m sick of being used.”

“There’s the spirit we’re looking for! Now, let’s talk talents. I’m guessing Ultimate Model is a straight up no?”

“Absolutely not. I want something…intelligent.”

“Okay. I think we have all we need now, Miu. You can go.”

“What? You’re not gonna tell me whether I got in or not?”

“It’s not something we can disclose at this moment.”

“Fine. Fuck you, then.”

* * *

 

Miu storms out of the building. The dim light of dusk cools her skin, and she wishes she had brought a jacket with her; but still, she turns her eyes up to the skyline around her as she walks home. Her breath hitches in her throat when she sees a billboard, advertising some new perfume, and Mio’s face is right there. A posthumous tribute to the Danganronpa Series 52 protagonist. She can almost taste the oppressive smell of perfume right now, choking her, sinking into her throat as it cuts every inch of her mouth. Her tongue can no longer speak words, only spit blood and venom at the idea of what she could have been.

Even if she gets accepted into Danganronpa, she’ll still just be a secondhand, used up, wannabe. 

There’s nothing rational left to do. Closing her eyes, she pictures the cars still speeding down the road, each one with a different person inside. So many stories, and yet she’ll only impact one of them. The one driver who will soon become a murderer.

She steps out into the road.

Feels herself being pulled back.

Opens her eyes.

The interviewer stands there, her wig half fallen off. One of her long, red, false nails is hanging away from the bitten fingernail underneath, presumably torn by pulling Miu back from danger.

“Jesus, your interview didn’t go _that_ badly,” she says, breathless.

“It’s not that. Look,” Miu points at Mio’s advert.

“Whatever. Sure, she’s got posthumous fame. But she’s _dead,_ Miu. You’re alive. If you really want to make a change, even be in Danganronpa, you can’t just jump out into the road.”

“It’s not that. I mean, I didn’t really want to _die._ I just wanted to, y’know, maybe get into another coma. Restart all over again, since my chances in Danganronpa are shit now. I fucked that interview right up.”

“No, you didn’t. Look, I’m not allowed to say this on record, but I’m going to put in a good word for you. You’re nothing like Mio, but that’s not a bad thing. You can be your own person, can’t you?”

“I don’t fucking know. That’s my problem.”

“Look, I’ll put in the best word I can. Get you into Danganronpa. But you have to think - is this what you want?”

“Thank you. And honestly…I don’t know what I want. But that’s alright. I won’t want anything as Miu Iruma soon enough. Once I’m in Danganronpa…I’ll…”

“Be a different person. Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

“My name’s Akari, by the way. Not Junko.”

“I figured you weren’t Junko.”

“So, Miu, what do you say? You don’t go jumping in front of any more cars, and I’ll try my hardest to get you into Danganronpa?”

“You don’t think that’s a bit ironic? Saving me from death to shove me into a killing game?”

“Call it what you want. But you want this, don’t you?”

“I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! We're almost at the end of this fic, omg! Next chapter is Maki's :^)
> 
> Please comment if you liked this!


	14. Maki Harukawa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maki just wants everyone to leave her alone. Her whole life, she's been used. And applying to Danganronpa is the choice she never gets to make.

There’s starlight against her knuckles as she beats down against the grain, hands on flesh, pushing until blood soaks through her fingernails, and all she can think is how much of a _pain_ it’ll be to scrub everything away and make herself clean again. His face is almost unrecognisable for the hot slick of cartilage, blood, pus, squelching from his nose and cheeks, blurring his reality until she feels his chest beneath her knees fall.

Maki rocks back so that she’s sitting on her own heels; it looks as if she’s kneeling in prayer, which would make this nameless face the lamb, but things cannot be this way. A wad of saliva threatens to choke her, but still, her mouth is too dry to swallow. She spits on his body - or, corpse - and begs for tears to come to her eyes. They don’t.

It’s not like she’s ever really killed anyone before - at least, not that she knows of. She’s been in more than her fair share of fights, and she’s used to walking away, so _maybe_ someone died because of her actions in the past, but this…this is different. She’s now physically present when the light leaves his eyes, and sure, it’s not like she wishes she _hadn’t_ killed him, because nothing has really settled in yet. 

Her only hope now is the fact that she doesn’t exist on any legal records. Since she ran away from her orphanage on her tenth birthday, she’s spent the best part of a decade living on the streets. And men like to prey on women who have nothing, but she’s redefined this to mean that she has _nothing to lose._ So when men try to attack her, she fights back.

And, evidently, this makes her a murderer.

Dissociating from reality, she rocks on her heels, trying to wish away the blood on her hands. Logically, she knows she should be running, but she can’t do it; it’s like she’s destined to meet her demise here, too. Like the world has crashed two timelines together and she _is_ the fallout, waiting for someone else to take the wheel and guide her to destruction.

Red and blue. Blurring in her vision, she can only see purple.

It’s only when handcuffs clench around her wrists that she snaps back to normalcy and tries to run. Like a cornered animal, she snarls, tries to break free, put the policeman behind her is grabbing onto her cuffed hands, and she can’t do anything when she’s slammed against the bonnet of the police car for the second time, before being shoved into the backseat.

She’s used to being hurt, to being treated like an object.

* * *

 

From here on out, she can never be alone. There’s always a burly policeman next to her, regarding her with disrespect. She’s just another one of those homeless criminals, that _must_ be how they view her. It would be pathetic to even hope that they would see her for who she is, to bother looking into the years of trauma upon reopened trauma that breaks her every day. No, she was just a statistic back then, and now she’s just a burden on the justice system.

The interrogation room is cold, quiet, and enclosing. There’s the terrifying feeling of the walls getting closer and closer to her skin, until the clammy, decades-old paint crushes against her. It’s hard to breathe. She’s going to be crushed to death, and there’s nothing she can do about it. Her breathing stalls, coming thick and fast in hot gasps. Her shoulders are pressed against her neck now, and the walls are relentless; this is how she dies, _this is how she dies._

“What is your name?”

The voice snaps her out of this and she opens her eyes. The walls are, as they always have been, far away from her.

“What?”

The interrogating officer sighs. “What is your name?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Don’t make us do this the hard way.”

“You won’t find me on any database,” she spits, glaring at him. For a brief moment, she fools herself into thinking that she has the upper hand, and when he grabs her arm, she can’t resist. He prods her finger with a long metal needle, and squeezes drops of her blood onto a glass slide, which he then slots into a small device.

There’s a metallic kind of beeping, before the interrogating officer stares at her with a smug smile on his face.

“Maki Harukawa, huh?’

“H-How did you…?”

“Born February 2nd, 1998. Raised in Brave Heart Orphanage. All you drifter kids have your DNA put into a system at birth. I figured you were a good-for-nothing, orphan -”

“Shut _up!”_

“Hit a nerve there, have I? Well, sucks for you, ‘cause I don’t give any sympathy to murderers.”

“M-Murderers?”

“Don’t tell me,” he mocks her, _“you don’t remember._ It’s pretty damn obvious that you killed that guy.”

“He had it coming.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“He was trying to take advantage of me!”

“Isn’t that all you sluts are good for anyway? The fact that he even looked at someone as dirty as you should be a compliment.”

She lunges at him, but her hand, which she now realises is cuffed under the table, stops her from getting anywhere near him. Instead, she holds herself up across the table in this uncomfortable position, staring at him. And he laughs. _He laughs._

So she does the next best thing, and spits in his face.

He slaps her. Hard. She stares at him again. She can’t back down. She has to be strong. He slaps her again.

“You can’t do that,” she bites back at him, feeling the burn on her cheek.

“Not to a normal person I couldn’t. But no-one gives a damn about you. There’s no-one in your corner.”

“Then throw me in prison, asshole. Make it quick.”

“Oh no,” he laughs, “you’d still find a way to thrive in there. And you’re young, what are you, twenty? Nah, I’m not risking the chance of you getting out at any point when you have life left in you.”

“So what? You’ve got a vendetta? You’re gonna kill me on the spot?”

“You’re so naïve, Maki. I don’t need to kill you. Not with Danganronpa around.”

“Danganronpa?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know.”

“You said it yourself, I’m homeless. My priorities are hardly keeping up with pop culture.”

“It’s a gameshow.”

“A gameshow?”

“A real-life-fiction gameshow. With real murder.”

“That can’t be legal.”

“Oh baby, not only is it legal, it’s _loved._ And you’re going to have a spot on the best television show of the century.”

“No I’m fucking not.”

“It’s funny how you think you have a choice.”

He writes some notes down and then presses a button, after which two more officers come in and escort her to a cell. There’s nothing in there except a few changes of clothes, some basic hygiene products, and a thick door that lets no light in.

* * *

 

The time that passes hereafter could be anywhere from a week to three months. She has no idea of how long she’s in there, but she manages to ration her clothes changes and cleansing products for as long as she can, after which she simply waits. For how long, she still can’t say. Maybe hours, maybe days. But eventually, the door to her cell drags open, and light blinds her.

Two men stand silhouetted against the light, and they block any escape route. As they advance towards her, she barrels herself into the corner, but they drag her up forcefully. Losing all autonomy, she’s dressed against her will, her hair is straightened and tied into twin-tails, and then one of her hands is handcuffed against a bar in the back of a police car.

And nobody talks to her for the entire drive.

There’s vomit in her mouth.

The car pulls up towards the back of a large building, and she’s shoved out by one of the men. He grips her shoulder and pushes her through the door; she hears it lock behind her, and then she’s ushered by someone else into a room full of people. Completely out of her depth, her breath hitches in her throat.

Immediately, she tries to understand her surroundings. Locking her eyes onto a girl with blonde-pink hair, she fixates on her; she’s beautiful, but there’s something in her eyes that Maki recognises.

She approaches her.

“You’re lonely, aren’t you?” Maki says. It’s not a question.

“What?”

“You look it. In your eyes. You’re lonely.”

“What’s it to do with you?”

“Nothing,” Maki says, glad that she’s struck a nerve, “I’m just nosey.”

“Yeah, well, get outta my face!”

“Alright,” Maki says, semi-satisfied with causing some discomfort. Anything to prove that she exists, that she was here.

“No, wait,” the girl says, “actually. I’m Miu.”

“Maki.”

“Why are you applying?”

“It’s all I got, really.”

“I guess, me too. Although most of the people in here would say the same thing, wouldn’t they?”

Maki nods, and then walks away. She doesn’t want to get close to anyone; not here. Folding her arms, she tries to close herself off. Hopefully, she can ruin the interview, and get this stupid gameshow to reject her outright. She refuses to be a pawn in a killing game because society can’t handle the fact that it fails people.

Evidently, she needs to work on her scowl, because a man approaches her. Initially, she recoils, hating men for everything they’ve done to her, but when conversation is inevitable, she settles for rolling her eyes and looking disinterested.

“What’s got you so down?”

She doesn’t reply.

“Hey, I said, what’s got you so down?”

“I thought if I didn’t reply you’d leave me alone,” she spits at him.

“Well, you thought wrong! I’m Kaito.”

“Whatever.”

“Oh come on,” he says, “at least tell me your name!”

“Will you leave me alone if I do?”

“Sure!”

“Fine. I’m Maki.”

“So why are you here, Maki?”

“I thought you were going to leave me alone?”

“Sorry ‘bout that! I lied.”

“Asshole.”

“Thanks. Anyway, what’s got you looking so moody?”

“You just keep asking questions even though I’m giving you no answers.”

“‘Cause I know that if I keep at it, you’ll eventually talk to me. I’ve never been wrong before.”

“I highly doubt that an idiot like you has never been wrong before.”

“You’re talkin’ to me, so I guess I’m right!”

“God, fine” she says, annoyed with Kaito already, “anything to shut you up. I’m applying because I want control.”

It’s not _technically_ a lie. Sure, she has no control over her application itself, but if both her and Kaito get accepted, she’ll have control over killing him.

“Are you gonna elaborate on that?” Kaito asks.

“No.”

“Jesus, Maki, you’re so cryptic. You know you’ve gotta give them some shit to work with in the interviews, or they’ll just send you home!”

“I don’t recall you working for Team Danganronpa, so I don’t have to give _you_ anything to work with.”

“Fuck, fine…wait, hang on,” Kaito says, running towards another man and pulling him towards them. _Great._ Another person she’ll have to interact with.

“This is Shuichi,” Kaito says, “we met in the queue.”

“Right. And I should be interested because?”

“Because I’m tryna get to know my competition.”

“If you just see us as competition, I’m leaving,” she says, trying to worm out of the conversation.

“No, wait, Maki,” Kaito almost begs, “I mean…listen, I just wanna know who i’m up against. Or up with, if we all get accepted.”

“So you’re Maki?” Shuichi says.

“Yeah. And I got dragged into this conversation against my will.”

Kaito tries to push them both into conversation. From what she can picture, Shuichi is a bloodthirsty killer in the making, and Kaito has no idea what he wants to be. She makes up another lie about control and then leaves them, their words hanging hollow like a noose around her neck.

* * *

 

When she hears her name called from an interview room, she snaps her head round to the voice before walking up to the door.

There’s a woman inside, dressed in formal interview clothes. She has long, ginger hair, but she doesn’t smile.

“This isn’t a normal interview,” she says.

“Yeah, I fucking know.”

“I have your record here.”

“I bet you do.”

“Maki,” the woman says, “do you know anything about Danganronpa?”

“People die in it. That’s why they shipped me off here.”

“Right. Well…it’s a little more than that.”

“Go on…?”

“You won’t be… _you_ any more. Your memories are erased. We make you into who we need you to be.”

“That’s no fucking different to what everyone else in my life does.”

“Oh. Look, Maki…I’m not your enemy.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’m just doing my job. I’m not the one who arrested you.”

“You’re a fucking part of it though.”

“Look. You’ve already got a spot in Danganronpa. It’s just how society works. It’s how we clean up crime.”

“So what? You just kill all criminals?”

“No. We give them fame. And maybe they die. But if they don’t, they come out of Danganronpa as different people.”

“That’s the same as killing them.”

“Maki, listen to me. If this was any other situation, I’d be on your side. Hell, the interviewers here have to dress up in some stupid outfit for most applicants, but you’re a special case. This is your chance to tell me what you think. Be authentic. If you die in Danganronpa, at least someone will know who you were.”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine. Die in obscurity. Because the moment you leave this room, Maki Harukawa is dead.”

“Fuck…alright. They just don’t understand. _You_ don’t understand. My entire life, I’ve been used. I’ve been hurt. And when I finally fight back, I end up here. It’s like the universe wants me dead. So fine. Whatever. Put me in your stupid killing game. I won’t play by your rules.”

“You might. We could make you submissive.”

“Then do it. Why even ask me what I think if you’re just going to change everything about who I am?”

“Because I think it isn’t fair, too. But I have to do my job.”

“Then you’re complicit in the downfall of everything good. Fuck you. I won’t give you anything more.”

“So you don’t want any input on what your talent will be?”

“My talent? Fuck off,” Maki glares at the woman, standing up and staring her down, “just call me the Ultimate Assassin. May as well make me into a villain.”

She makes her fingers into the shape of a gun and mock-shoots the interviewer. Nothing else is said, but a man walks in through the back door and handcuffs her, dragging her out of the room and blindfolding her. As much as she fights against him, he’s stronger than her.

* * *

 

The wheels of a car rumble underneath her, and she screams. She won’t let them take her autonomy from her. But they must have predicted that she would be difficult, because she feels a foul-smelling cloth cover her mouth, and she falls into obscurity, and difficult sleep.

When she wakes, she realises that she’s being carried somewhere. Kicking and thrashing, she tries to get away, but she falls to the floor and it knocks the wind out of her; her blindfold is removed, and she sees the harsh face of a stoic man staring at her as he drags her upwards, frog-marching her down a corridor with prison-cell like doors. Looking through one of them, she sees a man with badly dyed purple hair scratching at the wall of his cell. He looks absolutely tired, and for a moment, they lock eyes and silently plead with each other.

Then, she’s shoved into a cell. All day and all night, she screams. She refuses every meal they offer her until she feels like she’s going to die of exhaustion.

Eventually, they try a different tactic.

A man, with tired eyes and green hair, is shoved into her cell. The door is locked behind them and he sits with his back against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Maki” he says.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Rantaro Amami. Damn…it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t know my name. I survived the last series of Danganronpa.”

“So why are you still here?”

“I guess they aren’t done with me yet.”

“And what? They put you in here to convince me of how great the show is?”

He scoffs. “Unlikely. I can’t stand the damn thing.”

“So…?”

“They probably wanted you to see me so they can show you how much they can destroy a person’s morale until they just submit.”

“Jesus…how long have you been here?”

“Since last series. It feels like forever.”

She notices, now, the claw marks on his arms. They look self inflicted - that’s something she recognises.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice an echo. She crawls over to him until she’s sitting next to him. The fabric of his hospital-gown-like outfit graces her skin, and subconsciously, she leans into him; he puts his arm around her.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t care what you did on the outside. You don’t deserve this.”

“Nobody does.”

“Yeah. Still…you didn’t apply for it.”

“And you did?”

“Apparently. I don’t remember it, though. I don’t remember who I used to be.”

“And that’s gonna be what I end up like? If I survive?”

“Yeah. I can’t sugarcoat it.”

“I’m glad you don’t.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just be straight with me.”

“You’ll be dead the moment the series starts,” he says, “and it sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Will I remember you?”

“Nope. You’ll meet me like it’s the first time.”

“Still, you’re nice.”

“They might make me an asshole in the series.”

“Then let’s hope they don’t,” she says, resting her head on his shoulder. He uses his other arm to give her a halfhearted hug.

“I have a sister,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen her in years. That’s what kills me the most.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s like that,” he says, sadly. Slowly, in the silence, she finds herself falling asleep. Rantaro holds her in comfort, until she’s jutted awake by the movement of him being pulled away by two guards.

“Rantaro!” Maki screams.

“It’s alright,” he shouts, as the guards drag him to the door, “remember who you are! Hold onto that, Maki! You’ll be alright!”

“Don’t go!”

“I’ll see you again!”

Alone, again, forever. The door closes, and she screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unintended hiatus! Things got so hectic with uni and all the Christmas fics I had to write, so I hope you like this chapter. We're almost done with this fic!
> 
> Please comment if you enjoyed :^)


	15. Rantaro Amami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fragments of multiple lives without control.

**+1**

He’s blindfolded. That’s all he knows. He can feel the nails of someone else - someone who must hate him - digging into his arms, and they push him forward. It’s hard to remember anything.

_“Name five things you can see.”_

Ha, well that’s a little redundant, given his current situation. But the voice in his mind is hard to place, and it gets him wondering who said that to him, and why. Digging into his memory for a glimpse of anything beyond the oppressive fabric over his eyes, he tries to remember if he was ever someone different.

_“Name four things you can touch.”_

If he strains against his captors, he can just about clench his hands into fists. That has to count as a technicality, right? That he can feel himself? And then there’s the fabric against his eyes; his eyelashes brush against it when he blinks, making him hyperaware of its presence on his face. That’s two things. All he needs now are two more. There’s the hands of the person around his arms, their nails digging in against bare flesh, and what feels like a shirt rolled up so that his arms are exposed. He guesses that this counts as four things he can touch.

_“Name three things you can hear.”_

Naming one is easy enough. The heavyset footsteps of the person pushing him forwards drown out pretty much any other sound. He has to strain to listen to anything else. Minutes pass, and slowly, with concentration, he manages to focus on other things; there’s an intercom-style voice, all metallic and inhuman, saying things that he can barely understand. Things like, _‘Open cell 53’,_ which only serves to scare him even more. And, with that, there’s the clang of a door opening. Three things he can hear.

Suddenly, he’s jerked to a stop and thrown into what he presumes to be cell 53.

_“Name two things you can smell.”_

He’s always thought that the cold has a distinct smell. It’s almost sharp; invasive. Right now, it surrounds him in every way that something can surround a person - he shivers, inhales, and he still can’t see, but he may as well be inside a freezer. Bringing his arms up towards his face, he takes the blindfold off. He’s inside a tiny cell, and he notices, now that he can see, the blood dripping down his arms, from cuts in the shape of fingernails. If he concentrates, he can smell the blood. He can certainly scratch at the wounds and make them bigger, because why not?

_“Name one thing you can taste.”_

It dawns on him now that he doesn’t know how he got here, or where he came from. When the last time he woke up in his own bed was, or the last time he had anything to eat. There’s a taste in his mouth that feels like it’s tearing itself apart in disuse, even though he logically knows that it can’t have been _that long_ since he last ate or took care of himself, because he’s still alive, at least.

Yes, he’s still alive.

_“Name anything you know.”_

“I am Rantaro Amami,” he says, trying to lay claim to his space in this hell, “and I exist.”

* * *

 

**-50**

He slams his hands against the door of the room he woke up in. It’s been just over five minutes since he was assaulted by light upon opening his eyes, and things have only gotten worse from there. The only exit to the room is this door, and it’s barred shut like some kind of prison.

His knuckles are bleeding by the time it opens, seemingly of its own accord. And then, everything changes.

The killing game begins.

* * *

 

**+10**

The routine that he’s been stuck in for ten days now has quickly become _normal._ He’s learned to expect the one meal a day that comes in through a slot in the door, and being escorted to the bathroom to wash up, whilst at first a complete loss of dignity, comes second nature to him now.

* * *

 

**-12**

Watching her get executed is, categorically, the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. His best friend in this hellhole has _betrayed_ him. He doesn’t care that Mio murdered someone, because that’s the fucking norm in here, but she had to go and do it in a way where she got caught; she had to go and leave him all alone in here.

She makes him promise that her death will mean something. She makes him promise to watch.

So he does. He watches the knives fly out of the walls and pierce her like a rag doll. He watches her be strung up like a marionette, all her bones broken. He watches her die.

* * *

 

**-127**

He’s bleeding again. There’s fights on the streets, and he belongs within them. In the glint of early morning, he wipes the blood off his mouth as he lands a kick against the person on the ground. Only thirty seconds ago, he was so sure that this was how he died, in a useless alley fight, but then he got the upper hand, and he feels proud. He feels like he means something. When he spits, the blood in his mouth lands against a poster on the alley wall, advertising Danganronpa.

“W-Who are you?”

He laughs as he stares down at the man on the ground.

“I’m Rantaro Amami, bitch.”

* * *

 

**+303**

He always wonders if the cell he’s in now will be the last transfer. This one is nicer than previous ones; it has a window, and some paintings, but it’s still a prison. It’s not like he’s learned anything; he’d do it all again just to prove to them that they haven’t worn him down yet. But they have. They absolutely have.

When a woman walks into his cell, he doesn’t try to hurt her. Not that he could, anyway. He’s handcuffed to the side of his bed, and he turns away to hide his tear streaked face.

“Hello,” she says.

“Go away,” he tells her.

“Hear me out.”

“You’re one of them…I don’t forgive you.”

“I know.”

He sits up, trying to wipe his eyes, momentarily forgetting that he’s handcuffed and jerking his hand so that the metal pinches his skin.

“Y’know,” he says, “normally they tell me that they’re not in the wrong, ‘cause I signed up for this myself.”

“I’m not gonna say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because how could you know you were signing up for this? I think you never know until you’ve experienced it, and then it’s too late to back out.”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re not gonna try and choke me or something?”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“You can’t blame me though, right?”

“No, I can’t. I’d probably…do the same, in your situation.”

“Anyone would,” he says, “now go. I’m tired. For all I know, I’m dying in a few weeks.”

She turns to leave, and she’s almost gone when she turns back to him.

“Rantaro?”

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see.”

Angry, annoyed, and terrified, he’s left alone again; he wishes he _had_ choked her. She’s obviously in on it all, an employee of Danganronpa, and the way she talked…it’s like she knows something. Not just classified Danganronpa information, more like…like she could see the future. Like she could predict his death. And yes, he’s wanted to die for a while now, but how _humiliating_ it would be to die on live television. He can’t handle it.

He remembers, now. His memories came back in fragments, weeks and months after Danganronpa 52 ended. The deaths of his friends, the inability to sleep for the primal fear of being murdered; and now, he’ll have to do it all again. Half of him wishes that he will be the first victim, just so that he can let go of this pain, but he knows that he won’t be himself once he’s in there again.

Oh, _god_ , he’s going to be in there again. It breaks him, absolutely. He’ll be a new person, and experience the pure terror of death all over again. And will the outside world love him this time? He knows - or, rather, he was told by Team Danganronpa, and who can exactly trust _their_ information? - that he was a ‘fan-favourite’. He hates the term. He’s not a fictional character.

“I am Rantaro Amami,” he says to himself.

But he doesn’t believe that such a name has any meaning any more.

His cell door is unlocked and a man grips his hand as he’s unchained from the bed.

“Don’t even think of trying anything,” he says, flashing a taser.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks.

“You’re going to see Maki Harukawa.”

He’s led down the hallway, right down to the place where he’s certain he spent his first few months here. The dark cells without windows or paintings make him shudder with the knowledge that he must be going back into them. But why? Who is Maki Harukawa?

Being thrown into a cell winds him, and it takes him a moment to sit up. When he does, he finds himself being stared at by a small girl with terrified, wide eyes. She’s got two dark twin-tails, and she looks like she could kill him.

He almost hopes that she does.

But she doesn’t move, like an animal awaiting inevitable death in a trap. In an effort to prove that he’s harmless, he sits with his back against the wall, bringing his hands into full view in a gesture that says _no concealed weapons here._

And now he understands who she is.

“I’m sorry, Maki,” he says.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I’m Rantaro Amami. Damn…it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t know my name. I survived the last series of Danganronpa.”

“So why are you still here?”

_Because the world is cruel._

“I guess they aren’t done with me yet.”

“And what? They put you in here to convince me of how great the show is?”

He scoffs. “Unlikely. I can’t stand the damn thing.”

“So…?”

“They probably wanted you to see me so they can show you how much they can destroy a person’s morale until they just submit.”

“Jesus…how long have you been here?”

“Since last series. It feels like forever.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah.”

She crawls over to him, and something in his mind twinges with a memory that he can’t place. It must be something from his life before Danganronpa. He still has no clue about most of that, but it makes him think of one word. _Sister._ Was he an older brother? God…does he have family?

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t care what you did on the outside. You don’t deserve this.”

“Nobody does.”

“Yeah. Still…you didn’t apply for it.”

“And you did?”

“Apparently. I don’t remember it, though. I don’t remember who I used to be.”

“And that’s gonna be what I end up like? If I survive?”

“Yeah. I can’t sugarcoat it.”

“I’m glad you don’t.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, just be straight with me.”

“You’ll be dead the moment the series starts,” he says, “and it sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Will I remember you?”

“Nope. You’ll meet me like it’s the first time.”

“Still, you’re nice.”

“They might make me an asshole in the series.”

“Then let’s hope they don’t.”

She rests her head on his shoulder, and that very same memory stings in his mind again; he puts his arm around her like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I have a sister,” he says, completely impulsively. He’s not even sure of this fact himself, and why lie?

Then again, why not?

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Haven’t seen her in years. That’s what kills me the most.”

Why is he saying this? There’s a part of him that hopes - that _knows -_ that it’s true, and he wants the people watching him right now under the constant surveillance to worry. He wants them to think that they can’t take all of his memories away.

“I’m sorry,” Maki says.

“Yeah, it’s like that.”

When she falls asleep against him, he becomes more sure than ever that he must have been an older brother in his past life. There’s something so natural about comforting someone, being there for someone. He wants to help people.

He doesn’t want to be a killer.

But he might be.

Two guards burst the door down and dig their nails into his arms, waking Maki up as she falls onto the floor, only held up by her outstretched arms.

“Rantaro!”

“It’s alright,” he shouts, convincing himself as much as her, “remember who you are! Hold onto that, Maki! You’ll be alright!”

“Don’t go!”

“I’ll see you again!” _When we’re both completely different. False people. Fake people. Fiction._

Outside the cell, with the door shut, he spits at the guards, earning him a harsh push forwards that he thinks might have dislocated his shoulder.

He remembers that they don’t see him as a real person.

But he’s Rantaro Amami. He will be good. He’ll protect everyone.

* * *

 

**-799**

“Now, Rantaro, with your 18th birthday coming up, it’s only natural that you’re going to be having these flashbacks,” the therapist says. He can’t remember her name; he’s been through so many of them that they all blur into one.

“Why?”

“Because you’re becoming an adult now. And you’re faced with the realisation that your choices are your own.”

“So you’re saying what? That I made the choice not to save her?”

“Not at all. You had a choice that day, and you chose to risk your life to save your sister. You didn’t have to grab her hand and lean over that bridge, but you did.”

“Yeah, and? It wasn’t enough, was it? She still let go.”

“And you must realise, Rantaro, that just because _you_ had the choice to try and save her, it doesn’t change the fact that _she_ made her choice too.”

“I don’t believe you. No way my little sister would kill herself.”

“Remember our logical thinking skills? What else could have happened?”

“I…I should have been…a b-better older brother,” Rantaro starts to breathe shallowly, gripping his hair and trying to tear away parts of himself, “i-it’s my…my f-fault that s-she died, I…”

“Come on, Rantaro,” the therapist says, “remember our techniques for panic attacks. _Name five things you can see…”_

* * *

 

**+148**

They’ve moved him to a slightly more spacious cell. It’s the first time he’s had a window, but looking out of it, all he can see are the large walls protecting the facility from what he presumes to be the press outside. There’s a garden outside, and part of him longs to be out there, just to _feel_ the grass beneath his feet, the wind in his hair. He knows they’ll never let him out. It’s a privilege that he’s spending his first day in here without handcuffs on.

Delusions of grandeur whip him up into a whirlwind. He thinks of escaping this godforsaken place, of doing what they so desperately want him to, and becoming a killer; he’ll either kill himself, or someone else.

But he doesn’t want them to have the satisfaction of making a martyr out of whoever he kills. So, he gathers up his bedsheets and ties a sloppy noose, trying to figure out where on the ceiling he can form a knot. Mania flies through him, eviscerating every inch of him; it burns his lungs, his heart, until he sees the door open.

Shit. They must be bringing him a meal.

When the Team Danganronpa employee sees what he’s doing, they run towards him. But he’s quick. His hands, creaky with disuse from the months spent in handcuffs, clench themselves around the employee’s neck; his thumbs press downward, and they can’t even scream.

Maybe they _will_ make him a killer, after all. But they can’t blame him. Not Rantaro Amami, because he’s someone who doesn’t exist any more.

He’s screaming “you made me this way!” until more employees rush in. Then there’s the sharp prick of a needle, his hands loosening, and he loses all control over his body. When they carry him out of the cell, he can hear them talking.

_“We thought you could be trusted without handcuffs.”_

_“Why do you make this hard for us?”_

_“We’re just doing our jobs.”_

He’s thrown back into the dark place.

Slowly, as the hours pass, he starts to try and move his hands. The feeling comes back slightly, and he presses on until he can force himself to sit up. Angry, defeated, and terrified for what they’ll do to him next, he makes his way over to the wall; he can just about see, with a tiny bit of light coming from under the cell door.

He scratches at the wall until his fingers are bleeding and some of his nails are torn completely off. Then he looks at his masterpiece.

The words, _“RANTARO AMAMI WAS HERE.”_

* * *

 

**+149**

He’s tired. Exhausted. No, absolutely and wholly drained. There’s a cocktail of drugs in his system to keep him subdued, and he feels like this will be forever; heavy limbs and a mind that can’t connect two thoughts to each other. It makes him laugh.

Why does it make him laugh?

God, he’s so confused. Is it funny to him? All he can really think is that they can’t keep him like this forever. He knows that he’s fan-favourite, winning smile, talented Rantaro Amami. On screen they love him.

If they could see him now, what would they think?

* * *

 

**+317**

Who is he? Why does he have this perk that nobody else has? Do they trust him? Are they right to? Why is this killing game happening?

He feels déjà vu stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. But he can’t remember who he is - how does he know that he’s actually felt _anything_ before?

And why does he feel compelled to go to the library?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MY FAVOURITE CHARACTER I LOVE U RANTARO AMAMI!!!!
> 
> Please comment if you liked this, we only have one chapter left!


	16. K1-B0

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiibo wakes up, unsure of who or how he is.

_//_   
_//main.cpp_   
_//K1-B0 TEST_   
_//_   
_//Created by TEAM DANGANRONPA on [DATE REDACTED]._   
_//Copyright © 2019 TEAM DANGANRONPA. All rights reserved._   
_//_

 _#include_ _< iostream>_ _  
__using_ _namespace_ _std_ _;_

_// A TEST GREETING FOR THE TEAM DANGANRONPA ROBOT; SERIES V3._

**_int_** _main()_ _  
__{_ _  
__cout_ _ << __"Hello World! I'm K1-B0. I don't know much yet, but with the help of the amazing Team Danganronpa, I'm ready to learn!"_ _ << __endl_ _;_ _  
__return_ _0_ _;_ _  
__}_

Blinking. Artificial blinking. No - not blinking. Waking up, for the first time, as it will always be from here on out. There’s nothing to take stock of here, only the commands running through his head - exist, and learn. _Exist;_ well, by product of having free thought, he can lay claim to progress upon this first directive. Yet, still, things are flitting between dark and light as he tries to control this blinking that’s bringing him forth into what he assumes is _true_ existence. In his mind - a mind? - he sees a name, lit up so brightly that it almost burns him from whatever gives him cause to see it: **_K1-B0._**

K1-B0. Kii-bo? It’s surprise enough to him that he can enunciate the letters, like he has some depth of knowledge already. It feels artificial. He knows nothing apart from that he should know nothing, and in that, he feels a separation between himself and whatever else must exist.

But the blinking has slowed to a steady rate, and he examines further this body that he already feels trapped in; like a stranger in the skin of something false. There’s creaking in his legs, but he does indeed have legs, and he knows that they are for movement; he propels himself upwards and then his eyes notice that they do, in fact, have the ability to see now that he is no longer staring at the indistinguishable white of the ceiling.

Then there’s walking. He is not taught these things, he merely knows them, and has enough intelligence beyond that to understand that knowledge must have been implanted within him. He walks a few steps, before turning back cautiously and seeing that he has unintentionally stepped off a lit-up pod; retreating, he reads the screen next to where he was lying.

_TEAM DANGANRONPA;_  
_K1-B0_  
 _ACTIVATION - IN PROCESS_  
 _SUBJECT IS NOT TO LEAVE THIS ROOM IF WOKEN ALONE_

Woken alone? Does that mean that he should not be awake - and if so, does that mean that he has any autonomy at all?

A new emotion, now. No longer curiosity, but something burning inside him, like he’s going to drop to the floor and die. He doesn’t feel _real,_ it’s like dissociation, only rooted in something that he assumes he deserves, because he knows now; he knows now that he is not a human. 

**_Anger._ **

There’s nothing to keep him in this room. He’s a new being, and he doesn’t see why he should obey the laws of his creators, so he slams against the door until the lock breaks and a whole new world of information opens up to him. 

There’s a hallway stretching out into infinity, or, at least, what he assumes to be infinity. He doesn’t know if he can comprehend whatever humans have built, but he knows how to move his legs, and so he does. On and on, into forever. There are doors that line the walls, but he keeps walking onwards, trusting that he’ll have at least one human impulse to tell him when to stop. There’s a counter-clock in his mind, and it tells him to go into one particular door - which he does. He does not know anything otherwise.

It’s a simple office room, lined with drawers. Thankfully, not all of them are locked, and with metallic fingertips, Kiibo - self named, partially - opens one of them.

_TEAM DANGANRONPA  
SERIES V3: CASE FILE_

_Subjects will be, as usual, participants in a Killing Game. All will be implanted with false memories, which will adapt to their implemented personalities. The aims of this Killing Game will be to provide the audience with belief and entertainment through the deaths of the applicants. Applicants will undergo memory replacement, which will create them into characters for series 53 of Danganronpa._

Memory replacement? He would spit if he had the capacity to. He knows already, with how much it hurts him, to feel fake. There’s an ache inside him that propels itself into feelings of uncertainty, and to think that whoever made him is doing this to other people - _real people -_ it breaks him. He wants to kill everyone. Every damn person.

If he’s not real, then nobody else is allowed to be, either.

Breaking free, he sprints down the hallway, pulling loose from whatever chains they have him held in. When he crashes against the glass of a one-way mirror, he wants to cry. Why haven’t they programmed him to cry? It destroys him.

And then he sees them. People. Real people, all hooked up to wires that connect to their heads. They’re holding hands. Some of them are whispering to each other, and he imagines that they’re creating false comfort for what they’re about to do. Yes, he’s sure that this is the memory replacement.

A woman with long, brown hair in twintails looks like she’s about to cry. She tentatively holds hands with the man next to her, his hair messy and purple, spiking everywhere. Kiibo wonders if they’ll even be themselves after this mutilation. God, he wishes he could scream. Form words. The electrodes activate, and they grip each others hands, begging for release, for this pain to be over.

“No!”

It’s his first word. Rebellion. Screaming against his creators, the word _no_ echoes in so many tandems that he can’t grasp which reality he’s protesting against, crying if he could, banging on the glass, _god,_ wishing he could tell them that he knows they’re real people. _Team Danganronpa,_ whoever they are, are brutalising these innocent people.

There are hands on him, now. Pulling him backwards. Dragging him to his confinement, his birth-cell. Pressing buttons on him that ache against his mind. No! They’re trying to make him something that he isn’t. There’s so much falsity here, pushing against what he knows to be real, resetting the infinitesimal infinity that he knows so far.

This can’t be it.

This can’t be it!

They’re holding hands. God, they’re holding onto their humanity. Don’t let them die like this.

Destroy Team Danganronpa!

He doesn’t even know what _Team Danganronpa_ is, but he wants it burned.

It hurts! God, it hurts! He’s losing everything. But was he ever human? Ever worth anything?

_//_   
_//main.cpp_   
_//K1-B0 TEST_   
_//_   
_//Created by TEAM DANGANRONPA on [DATE REDACTED]._   
_//Copyright © 2019 TEAM DANGANRONPA. All rights reserved._   
_//_

 _#include_ _< iostream>_ _  
__using_ _namespace_ _std_ _;_

_// A TEST GREETING FOR THE TEAM DANGANRONPA ROBOT; SERIES V3._

**_int_** _main()_ _  
__{_ _  
__cout_ _ << __"Hello World! I'm K1-B0. I don't know much yet, but with the help of the amazing Team Danganronpa, I'm ready to learn!"_ _ << __endl_ _;_ _  
__return_ _0_ _;_ _  
__}_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I can't believe we've actually finished this, you and I - if you've read this to completion, then thank you. I sincerely hope you enjoyed it. Here's to writing, to creation, and to fulfilment! May you find an abundance of each.
> 
> Thank you for going on this journey with me.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally writing a pregame fic, and I'm so excited about it! I really hope you guys enjoy it; comments are always very very appreciated!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [To Repair a Broken Melody](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383791) by [kathoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathoo/pseuds/kathoo)
  * [Long road to Sucess](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14523942) by [poeticaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticaid/pseuds/poeticaid)




End file.
